The Barrister's Apprentice
by S. Faith
Summary: Mark makes an acquaintance that might well change his life. A/U.
1. Chapter 1

**The Barrister's Apprentice**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 34,894 (six chapters and an epilogue); this chapter: 5,514  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary<span>: Mark makes an acquaintance that might well change his life.  
><span>Disclaimer<span>: Not my characters, but I do love making up situations in which I can make them dance to my tune. (The original/semi-original character/s are all mine, though.)  
><span>Notes<span>: Another 'what if?' scenario that I won't spoil for you here.

* * *

><p>Chapter 1.<p>

_"The law is reason free from passion."_

—_Aristotle _

Before the New Year, Mark Darcy had never really understood the concept of the 'love/hate' relationship. He still didn't fully grasp what it might be to truly love someone and hate them at the same time, but he thought now that he had the barest understanding of the conflict, if being attracted to someone despite feeling that she was the last woman on earth to whom he should be attracted was any hint of that turmoil.

First had been New Year's Day. That's when he'd met her, thought she was cute despite her attire, charming despite her verbal gaffes. However, the thought of being set up by her parents and his own unsettled him; why would a woman need to be set up by her mum if she weren't in some way defective?

Then had been the book launch. The book and its author both had been utterly forgettable; he'd only gone because it was better than going home to a lonely house. She had turned up there, though, drink in hand, far beyond cute and well into sexy, with her hair done up and wearing a little black dress. The verbal sparring in which they had engaged felt more like foreplay than actual clashing. If not for the appearance of the one man he could call enemy, Daniel Cleaver, he might have had the opportunity to talk with her more.

Then he'd learned through common social circles that the two of them had become an item. Mark had had a feeling—and he knew from experience that his feelings when it came to Daniel were not often wrong—that it would all end very badly for her. He hoped he was wrong.

The final straw, so to speak, occurred in May; a day after seeing the pair of them staying overnight in the same country hotel as he, attending a summer fete at a family friends' country home, where Bridget had come (alone, he'd noted) dressed as a bunny girl wearing little more than a bodysuit and fishnet tights. Granted, the party had originally been touted as 'Tarts & Vicars', and clearly she had not been informed of the change of plans, but seeing her on display brought up some very conflicted feelings within him: he was horrified that she would willingly appear in public in such an outfit, but she was so gorgeous and curvy compared to his rather unfeminine companion that weekend, Natasha, a family law barrister from chambers, that thoughts of Bridget nearly spilling out of her outfit stayed with him for days (and nights).

From then on, news of her situation then seemed to drop off, almost as if a media blackout had been issued. The more he didn't know, the more he thought about her. As always, he had his work to occupy him, and he tried to employ it to its intended effect. For the most part, it worked. The cases on which he worked were not overwhelming; as time passed, as the end of July approached (and therefore the end of the school year), it meant the start of the summer work experience placement. It was the first time the partners had participated in the program, and Camilla Parkinson, a corporate law partner in chambers, was to whom the student for the summer would be assigned.

Work was, however, proving not to be fully up to the task of putting her out of his head. As days went on, he supposed that someone or something—God, Fate or the universe—saw this need in Mark and decided to give him something with which to occupy his time.

…

There was a knock on Mark's door the first day into the summer program. Mark glanced up and saw that the student—a boy, tall and lanky, with short, light brown hair and a hesitant smile—was standing just outside. Mark motioned that the boy should enter.

"Hello, Mr Darcy, sir," the boy said as he entered.

"Hello—" Mark said, realising quickly that he didn't even know the kid's name.

"It's Sam," he said. "Sam Eccleston."

"What can I do for you, Sam?"

"Mrs Parkinson asked that I bring this to you," he said nervously, handing Mark a folder.

"Thank you." He took the folder, opened it, began examining the paper within. Movement in his peripheral vision caused him to look up again. Sam was still there.

"Something else?" Mark asked.

"Oh, yes sir," he said. "I'm supposed to wait for you to initial it and I'm to bring it right back."

Mark blinked, then read through the text. It looked perfectly acceptable, so he initialled the corner of the paper, closed the folder, then handed it back to Sam.

"Thank you," Sam said. He then offered another timid smile. "If you don't mind me asking, Mr Darcy, do you also do corporate law?"

"I don't," said Mark, taken slightly aback. "My specialty is in the field of human rights."

Mark saw something very close to a spark of interest cross his features. "Really?" asked Sam. "Do you mean refugees and asylum and political prisoners?"

"Yes," Mark said. "Sometimes." After a moment, when it became obvious Sam Eccleston was not about to leave of his own accord, Mark added, "You had better get that back to Mrs Parkinson."

"Oh, sorry, sorry," he said. "Thank you."

On Wednesday, two days after his encounter with the student worker, a second knock landed upon his door. Another partner and friend, Jeremy Roberts, was standing just outside with a strange look on his face. He came in and closed the door behind him.

"Mark, there's been a car accident," he said. "Camilla's husband."

"Oh, no," said Mark, saddened terribly at the thought of her loss. "I'm so sorry to hear."

Jeremy was quick to correct the obvious misapprehension: "No, no, he's alive, and he'll be fine, but his injuries mean he's in hospital and will be for the foreseeable future. She's taking a leave of absence until he can come home."

"I'm relieved to hear that much," Mark said. "Thank you, and let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

"Funny you should mention that." Jeremy sat down in a chair on the other side of Mark's desk. "There's the question of the work placement student."

The boy, Sam Eccleston. "Well, certainly another of the partners will need to take over."

"I thought about taking him under my own wing," said Jeremy, "but I know his mother, so…" Jeremy didn't have to finish; Mark knew that Jeremy couldn't do it and risk seeming prejudiced for the boy when it came to evaluating Sam's work, risking the success of the program. Jeremy went on. "He's very interested in human rights law, Mark."

It occurred to Mark just then what Jeremy was intimating. "You want me to take him on?"

"You're the best one to do it."

"Jeremy," said Mark, "I'm rubbish with kids."

"He's not a kid. He's sixteen, he's very good with following instructions, and quite bright to boot."

Mark narrowed his eyes. "You know his mother, so you're not exactly unbiased."

"I don't think I am being biased. I've seen him working with Camilla, Mark. He's eager and earnest and frankly, of the lot of us here, you could use help the most. _And_ he's wants to know more about your legal speciality."

Mark could not well mount any argument to this. "Fine," he said. "Even though I don't have the faintest as to what he's supposed to be doing."

Jeremy chuckled. "You'll figure it out. I suspect by the end of the program you won't know how you managed without him."

Mark chuckled. "You're probably right. Well, might as well send him in."

Jeremy smirked. "He's in after lunch. He can only work half-days."

"Oh." Mark pondered a moment. "Is there anything else he can't do?"

"Write your briefs for you," Jeremy said with a wink, then stood again. "I'll send him in when he gets here."

"Thank you," Mark said, then, as Jeremy departed, sank into his work once more. He had to admit that he was a bit distracted, though, due to both the news of the morning—he and Camilla might have had their differences, but he could only imagine the day she must have had, the anguish followed by what little relief she'd had—as well as the sudden added responsibility of minding a student worker.

The latter became a slightly more terrifying prospect during lunch, which he spent with Natasha. "So very noble of you, Mark," she said, picking at her salad, spearing a cornichon then raising it up. "Taking on a teenaged boy. The things I've seen them capable of doing... they'd turn your hair grey." She then took a neat bite off of the end of her quarry.

"I've already met this boy," Mark said, mindful of her speciality in the law. "He's perfectly pleasant."

"Mmm," she said forebodingly. "In my experience, that's no indication at all. Smile at you one minute, break a mirror, punch a hole in the wall, try to push you down a stairwell the next."

"I should think that Camilla might have mentioned if her student was behaving in such a manner."

"It doesn't mean they aren't calculating for the right time to take advantage," she said. "I don't mean just physically. They can be little _sociopaths_."

"Well," Mark said, "I think I'll not make premature judgments."

"Forewarned is forearmed," she said with finality, then had another bite. "So how are you fixed for this evening? Care to have dinner?"

"Can't," he said quickly. "Heading to Grafton Underwood." It wasn't true, but it made for a handy excuse when trying to evade her obvious attempts to get him alone, something she'd been trying since that weekend in the country, the so-called 'Tarts & Vicars' soiree.

"Mid-week?"

He shrugged nonchalantly.

"You spend a lot of time there," she said, suspicion evident in the tone of her voice.

"My parents live there," he said, then considered he'd need a new excuse very soon.

The remainder of lunch consisted of moderately dull conversation about recent politics, after which they returned to chambers. Mark found his new charge already waiting, talking with Giles. "There he is, your new boss," said Giles. "I believe you've met Sam here, Darcy?"

"Yes, I have. Sam Eccleston," said Mark with what he hoped was a friendly smile. "Is it all right if I call you Sam?"

"Yes, sir, Mr Darcy. I was really sorry to hear about Mr Parkinson," he said, "but I'm _really_ glad to be working for you now." Mark's brows shot up. "I mean—" Sam faltered, turning an spectacular shade of crimson. "I don't mean I'm glad not to be working with Mrs Parkinson."

Mark chuckled. "I understand. Come on with me to my office."

Upon entering the office, Mark realised he ought to have taken the time to find a place for Sam to work. "Sorry I'm not quite ready for you," said Mark.

"It's all right," said Sam with a grin. "I don't take up much space." Indeed, he had only a backpack with him.

Within a few minutes Mark had the far side of his very large desk cleared of books and folders, which he then set on the side table in his office. "There," he said, then looked to Sam. "Well. I suppose I ought to get you working."

"Okay," he said.

"Okay," Mark echoed. "Perhaps you can begin with…. Hm."

"I can put the books away," Sam suggested.

Judging from the layer of dust that Mark had noticed (with some horror) had accumulated on the books as he'd moved them, it was clear that he was no longer actively using them. "Yes. Very good idea. Thank you. They just go there."

"On the shelves," Sam confirmed.

"Yes. Actually," Mark said, standing again, "there's a bit of a system here. The legal codices are over there." He gestured. "Then for reference books with specific topics like asylum, rights abuses, history, they're organized by author and title. The books have labels on the top of the spine for topic. Most of the authors are under the same topic, so… that should make it a little easier." He stopped. He realised there were only five books to return.

"I… think I'll be able to get them back where they need to go," he said sheepishly.

"Excellent," said Mark, resuming his seat and returning to work. He glanced up again a few minutes later when he realised Sam was not moving, and saw that he had plucked a book off of the shelf to page through it. He drew his brows together. "What are you doing there?"

Sam started as if poked. "Sorry. I just read another book by this author and it caught my eye."

At this Mark was truly surprised. "Sanders? Which have you read?"

"_One World Justice_," said Sam, allowing a shy grin to play upon his lips. Mark wasn't surprised at the title he named; that was the more mainstream of the tomes by Anthony Sanders, whose legally oriented book _Building Equality Into the System_ Sam had chosen to peruse. Even still, _One World Justice_ was not something he'd expect a sixteen year old boy to read willingly; the fact that he had was quite astonishing.

"Was that a school assignment?" Mark asked, suddenly curious to know.

"No, sir," said Sam. "My mum had got a copy from work, and I thought it looked interesting."

"Ah," he said, wondering if Sam's mother was also a barrister, and if so, if he might have known her. Before he got a chance to ask, however, his phone rang. "Pardon me," Mark said, reaching for the receiver, then realised he ought to give Sam something more to do. "Just… sort those folders into alphabetical order, please."

"Yes, sir," said Sam.

On the phone was his client, Kafir Aghani, for whom Mark was handling his court case to decide whether he would be able to stay with his wife in the UK, or be forced to return to his home country (and to an almost certain death). They spoke for a long while about the case, which was due to return to court next month; Mark was outlining the strategy when he realised that Sam had finished his sorting duties and had returned to the Sanders book. From the look of it, he was completely engulfed in the subject.

The telephone conversation wound down and Mark hung up the call. Sam still did not move, just continued reading. "Sam?" Mark asked.

"Yes? Oh, sorry." He closed the book, then after a moment of thought he stood and put the book back into place.

"It's all right," said Mark. "Actually, you may borrow that if you wish."

"Better not," he said. "I'll probably just lose it."

"Well, it's here for when you don't have anything active to do. Now. For the folders." Mark stood and went to his filing drawer, giving Sam instructions on how to file them away. "By the way," he said in conclusion, "I'm sure you are very much aware of this, but anything in chambers that you overhear, such as that conversation I just had with my client, or may see, like what's in these files or to which client they belong, must be held in the strictest of confidence."

Sam nodded. "I had to sign a paper."

"I expected as much," said Mark, thinking Sam must have meant a non-disclosure agreement, "but I'd rather say it twice than not at all."

"I understand," Sam said. "Privacy is very important to your clients. They rely on you for it."

"You do understand," said Mark, "and I need not mention the subject again." He considered this boy with whom he would be in close quarters for the foreseeable future, thought it might be nice to know a little bit more about him. "So what are your interests in school?"

"I do pretty well in English literature, but I'm really interested in history and current events. This stuff, human rights, you know."

Mark smiled. "Yes, I do." He considered again what it was he could have Sam do, and thought about the notes for Aghani's case that he'd yet to transcribe from his legal pad into the laptop; since they weren't needed just yet, he'd been putting it off. "How are you on a computer?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm okay, I guess."

"Can you type?"

"I can type better than I write," he said.

"Then I have a project for you," said Mark.

Sam took to the transcription like a duck to water; Sam only had to ask Mark a few times for clarification on a notation or to translate what it was his writing said. "Well, it's Latin," said Mark on one such occasion. "I'd be surprised if you did understand it. Impressed, but surprised." This elicited a laugh from Sam.

It was the sound of Sam digging into his bag to retrieve his iPod that brought Mark back to the present from his work. He glanced at the clock on his desk and noted the time was just after five. "I made good progress," he said, hanging his headphones around his neck. "Middle of the eighth page."

When Mark considered his own propensity for writing in a very condensed fashion, this was remarkable progress indeed. "Thank you," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Sam nodded. "After lunch." He slung his bag onto his shoulder.

They walked out of the building together. At the door, Mark asked, "Would you like dropping off home?"

"No thanks," said Sam. "I've got an Oyster and the Tube takes me straight home."

"You're sure?" he said.

"I'm sure. See you tomorrow."

After an exchange of goodbyes Mark and Sam went their separate ways; as Mark drove away, he pondered this new responsibility of his. Based on a single day, which he fully realised was hardly enough a sample by which to truly judge, he thought he would like having Sam around very much.

It wasn't until much later in the evening, as he was lying in bed and thinking further upon the day, that he realised he had never actually asked Sam about whether his mum was someone Mark might have known. He tried but couldn't think of any female barristers by the name of Eccleston, but he supposed she might have, like so many professional women, not taken her husband's name. It wasn't that it was at all important; it was more of a curiosity to him than anything else, and if he never remembered to ask it wouldn't be the end of the world. Turning everything around in his head, however, did help him to fall asleep.

…

Mark was not in the office that next morning due to court; it was a minor, routine hearing for which he'd prepared while Sam had been transcribing for him. It was so routine that he hadn't thought it necessary to mention to Sam, because he thought he'd be back to the office well before the boy would.

He hadn't expected to be stuck in court for an extra hour beyond the allotted time, giving him scarcely enough time to pick up a sandwich for lunch. He then went straight to chambers with just enough time to eat at his desk before Sam was due, only to find that Sam was already sitting at the desk reading the Sanders book.

"Hello," Mark said in his surprise, startling the book out of Sam's hands. "You're early."

"I'm sorry," he said sheepishly, spying Mark's carrier bag. "I take after my dad that way. I can, er, go if you want to eat on your own."

Mark chuckled. "If you don't mind that I'm eating, I don't mind you staying."

"I had lunch before I came so I'm not hungry."

Satisfied he wouldn't offend or break his long-ingrained rule never to eat in front of someone who was without, he pulled back the white butcher paper in which his turkey and Swiss cheese sandwich had been wrapped, then took a bite followed by a sip of his coffee. He quickly set it down, once again feeling rude. "Are you thirsty?" Mark asked.

"I'm okay. I've got my water bottle." He reached down and pulled out of the bag what seemed an almost impossibly large stainless steel sport bottle, then set it down on the desk. "I mean, that's okay, isn't it?

"That's fine," he replied, then picked up the sandwich and took another enthusiastic bite. Sam read for a few minutes more before he closed the book then turned to look at Mark with obvious apprehension, but didn't speak.

"What is it?"

"If you have the laptop I can continue with typing."

"You're not due to start yet," said Mark. "Go on and read."

It was just shy of one when Mark finished his sandwich, folded up the butcher paper and set it aside for recycling. Taking his cue from that sound, Sam again closed the book and looked up. Mark reached into his attaché and pulled out the laptop, opened it to input the password, then handed it to Sam. "I had a chance to look over what you've done so far. Really great job."

"Thanks," he said; the tone of his voice spoke of both pride and humility. "Hope I can finish this today."

"If not, that's all right too," said Mark.

With that Sam resumed his transcription, while Mark picked up his telephone to call to verify reservations for a dinner meeting that evening. Once that was squared away he reviewed the papers from court that morning, re-organising them for filing later. It must have taken him a lot longer to do that than he thought, because when he finished, he realised Sam was back to reading.

"Sam, are you done?"

Mark's voice obviously startled him and he slapped the book shut again. "Yes, sorry," he said, "but you were so busy I didn't want to bother you."

It wasn't as if Sam was goofing off, but he felt obliged to say, "I really don't mind if you let me know when you're done. If I don't want to be disturbed I'll let you know." Belatedly he thought he might have sounded a little too harsh, so he added, "You're very quick—I never expected you to be done already, or I would not have immersed myself so thoroughly."

That elicited a smile. "Thank you, sir."

Mark glanced to his clock, saw it was half past three. He didn't have anything more to do there in his office, didn't have anything for Sam to do, but he didn't think he was supposed to send Sam home early. He thought of his consideration the previous day regarding getting to know Sam a little better, since they would be working together for—well, he wasn't actually sure exactly for how long; he'd have to find out. "So," he said. "Do you live in London?"

Sam nodded. "Just near Borough Market."

Not too terribly far from where he lived, though over the bridge; he made a mental note should the occasion rise to offer Sam a lift home. "That must be nice."

"It can be kind of noisy. Sound travels right into our flat."

"I bet," said Mark. "Especially in the summer."

"Oh, yes," he said. "The trains run right by us too, though, so I'm used to it being a little on the noisy side."

Mark was grateful more than before for the relative quiet of his neighbourhood. Remembering his earlier mention of school subjects, Mark probed, "What's your favourite subject at school, English literature or… the history class you mentioned?"

"Probably history," he said. "I find it really interesting, and that's what I like about this book too."

"So you must be thinking about university," said Mark.

Sam grinned lopsidedly. "I have been, yeah. Mum wants me to think about here or in Wales. Dad wants me up north."

"And what have you been thinking about?"

"I haven't really, not yet, though I know I should," he said. "How about you? How did you decide?"

The question took him aback. "There wasn't a time where I thought of going to anywhere but Cambridge, to be honest."

"Really?"

He nodded. "My family's been going there for generations."

"Your mum too?"

Mark felt a bit brought up short; he had only been thinking of the Darcy men. "She didn't," said Mark. "She married my father when she was quite young."

"Didn't go to uni?"

Mark chuckled. "It wasn't as common in her time for women to pursue an academic career. They were expected to marry and start a family."

Sam looked both horrified and extremely puzzled.

"That's not to say that they never did," Mark added. "Just… well, it was a different time."

"You can say that again," Sam said. "Even my mum went to uni, and she married young too." He sighed. "Cambridge, though. Wow. I'm not even sure I could get in."

"Because of your marks?"

"Oh, my marks are good. Solid," Sam said confidently. "It just seems like an impossible task. It's really competitive, and…" He trailed off. "I don't think I could get enough scholarships to afford it."

"Surely your parents would help?" Mark asked.

"Sure they would," he said, "and they'd bend over backwards to do it. I don't really want to put that burden on them, though, if I can help it."

Mark understood. The cost of university was higher than ever before. "Just don't rule it out completely. I'm sure there are resources out there that might help."

"You're probably right," Sam said. "Just have no idea where to start."

"I'll be sure to keep my eyes and ears open," Mark said. A quick glance at his clock surprised him: it was now quarter past five. "Well, looks like that's it for the day, so what do you say we wrap things up until tomorrow?"

Sam nodded as he rode and slung his bag onto his shoulder. "Sounds good. Busy night ahead. My mum's taking me out."

"That sounds quite nice," said Mark. "I've only a dinner meeting to look forward to."

"I don't understand that about adults," said Sam. "Turning a perfectly good dinner into work."

Mark laughed out loud at this. Sam turned scarlet red.

"Sorry," Sam said.

"Don't apologise," said Mark. "You are absolutely correct."

"If my mum were here, she'd tell me to watch my mouth."

"That wasn't so bad."

"Most of the time she'd be right. She's not so great about that herself," admitted Sam. "Suppose she wants me to develop better habits than she did."

"We all want things better for our children," said Mark.

"Oh, do you have kids?" asked Sam.

"I don't, no."

Sam looked quite confused. "You don't know?"

Mark chuckled again. "I meant no, I don't. I was just speaking in general terms."

"Oh. That's too bad. I think you would've been a great dad." Again Mark was startled by the frankness of his opinion; he hadn't known the boy a week. Sam glanced to the door. "Better go or I'll miss my train."

"See you tomorrow."

He watched Sam depart as he packed the laptop back into his attaché. After a brief stop at home he'd be heading to the restaurant for drinks prior to the dinner meeting. It was odd to consider he rather would have spent more time chatting with Sam.

…

"You know, I've been very pleased with your work," Mark said; after about a week of having Sam around, Mark was beginning to understand why Jeremy said he wouldn't know how he got along without Sam's help. Mark had said it to cheer Sam up, but the boy still looked a bit down, so he added, "I'm glad you seem less intimidated by me, too."

"Thanks, sir," said Sam.

"You're welcome," said Mark, even as he pondered that he hadn't heard Sam address him as 'sir' in at least two days. "Is something wrong?"

Sam shrugged as he continued sorting for Mark. "Not really."

Mark didn't buy it for a moment. "Are you sure?"

Sam set the paper down. "It's my mum. She split from her boyfriend a bit ago and… though he turned out to be kind of a creep, I thought she was okay now… but I think she might still have feelings—"

So stunned was Mark that he hardly heard most of what Sam had said, and he interrupted, "Your mother had a boyfriend?"

"Well, yeah," said Sam. "Why wouldn't she?"

"What about your father?"

Sam drew together his brows. "Well, they're divorced. Have been since I was a kid."

"Divorced?"

"Yeah."

Mark sat back in his chair. Why had he assumed that Sam's parents had been married when so many marriages end in divorce, as his own had done?

"It's okay, though," said Sam. "They're still really good friends, and they take good care of me. Dad lives in Manchester now, but I still see him all the time. It's like he never left."

"It's… it's okay," Mark said. "You don't have to explain it to me, of all people."

"You looked a little shocked, is all," said Sam.

"I was, a little," Mark admitted. He suspected Sam wanted to talk about it and perhaps had had no one with whom to do so, he asked gently, "So he was a creep?"

Sam nodded. "He seemed nice, has a really shiny new car, and all that, but he just had a sort of… I don't know how to explain it… a kind of smarmy vibe to him, but I don't know. She seemed really happy, though, so I was glad for her. But then they split up."

"I'm sorry," said Mark. Sam looked quite emotional. Mark added. "It's not like it's your fault."

"But I think it was," confessed Sam. "I could tell he wished I wasn't around. That he was tired of having practically a stepson around."

"I'm sure that's not true," said Mark, even though he wasn't sure at all; some men did not want what they perceived as another man's baggage. "You don't really know why they split; your mother is hardly going to confide in you."

"She usually does though."

Mark doubted any adult woman was going to confide her romantic endeavours to her teenage son, but he had already made enough assumptions about Sam's family, so he asked, "Did you try to talk to her about it?"

Sam pulled the corners of his mouth down. "She laughed, hugged me, and told me not to be a daft cow… that she was just fine."

Mark held in a chuckle at what was evidently a term of endearment. "So maybe breaking up was her idea."

Sam didn't respond right away. When he did speak, his voice was very quiet. "We saw him when we were out on Sunday. She acted like she wasn't affected at all, like she hadn't even noticed him, but I could hear her in her room crying that night. So I think he chucked her. Because of me." He sighed. "I just want her to be happy, 'cause she's been on her own for a long time."

He felt for Sam and for his mother's situation. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"I appreciate it," said Sam. He picked up the papers again, squared the edge down against the desk surface, then sighed once more. "I just wish there was more I could do."

"You're a pretty perceptive young man; you'll know what to do when she needs you."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said with the first hint of a smile Mark had seen all day.

"If there's anything _I_ can do, don't hesitate to ask," said Mark.

"Not sure what you could do," said Sam. A bit of his usual spark shone through as he added, "Maybe some kind of indictment or something, being a jerk in the first degree?"

Mark smiled. "If only I could, I would have issued those many times before."

Sam laughed a little again. Mark was glad he could brighten Sam's spirits a little. Sam said, "I just hope she can get over it sooner rather than later."

"Either way, she's got you, and I wager that counts for a lot."

Sam smiled again. "Yeah, she does."

As Sam went back to his sorting, Mark could see that Sam unloading the burden he'd been carrying had lifted his spirits noticeably. Mark was glad. He liked the boy; in Sam he saw himself at the same age and found his enthusiasm and passion for the legal field a breath of fresh air amongst those pursuing law solely for the money and prestige. He also found, much to his surprise (given the relatively scant amount of time during which Sam had been working in Mark's office), that he was starting to care about Sam and his future.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Barrister's Apprentice**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 34,894 (six chapters and an epilogue); this chapter: 5,539  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p>Chapter 2.<p>

That Friday night Mark encountered something that defied explanation. He was just exiting a restaurant after a perfectly pleasant meal with an old friend from university when he spotted two persons he hadn't expected ever to see together: one was Sam, and the other—

Mark blinked. It could not be that the woman whom he had been trying so hard to purge from his thoughts was walking with her arm threaded through around Sam's elbow, laughing and pulling him along as they walked briskly together. Then he heard her voice carry into the evening and knew without a shadow of doubt that the woman with Sam was indeed Bridget.

He was bewildered. It had not occurred to him that Sam could have in any way known Bridget; it was as unlikely a pairing as would ever come to mind—not to mention that he would not have thought she would go for someone at the barest minimum age of consent. He did understand the appeal though; he understood it all too well. Though he was just sixteen—possibly almost seventeen, for all Mark knew—Sam was mature enough to be attracted to her wit as well as her looks.

The entire way home he mulled it over. How had they met? Surely not through school; that would have been a big no-no, legally speaking, and Sam seemed very much aware of those things. Did his mother know about it, and did she approve? He also wondered how it was possible this had not erupted into a scandal at the very mention in Grafton Underwood? But he knew: she simply hadn't told anyone, or his mother would have given him an immediate update. That certainly could have explained why there had been silence from his own mother on the subject.

The very next afternoon he was shopping at Waterstones in the hopes of finding another copy of the Sanders book Sam had been so interested in, to give to him on the occasion of his tenure as a protégé of sorts came to an end in a couple of weeks (as he'd subsequently determined). As if his thoughts were made manifest, as he turned down the aisle in winding his way towards the non-fiction, he came face to face with Bridget herself.

"Oh!" she said, dropping the book she'd had in her clasp, something that, if the pink cover were anything by which to judge, was not exactly heavy reading. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry," he said as he bent to sweep up the tome for her, feeling himself bristle a little; at her for choosing someone ridiculously too young for her, and at himself for being more attracted to her than ever.

She lifted her chin in an almost defiance as she accepted the book from him. "I'm well."

"Pardon?"

"Since you didn't ask," she said.

"I didn't get a chance. So how are you?" he asked coolly.

She was looking at him as if he were mad. "I just said I'm well."

After mulling it over he decided to put her under the proverbial microscope and ask, "And how's Sam?"

"Sam's fine," she said. "I was just here shopping for a present for him, actually." It was then he noticed a second book cradled in her arm, the very one he'd gone to purchase. She saw his gaze connecting with the book. "Hardcover edition and the last copy too," she said proudly. "He's been talking so much about it I had to get it for him." She smiled fondly, clearly thinking about him. "He's so sweet and really doesn't ask for a whole lot so I'm happy to buy him little gifts."

Mark forced a smile, shocked at her lack of discretion in speaking about Sam to him, someone she honestly didn't know that well. "I suppose you should give him _something_ in return," he said evenly, barely reining his disapproval about the fact that her fling was such common knowledge that he, barely an acquaintance, would ask her about it… and that she could be so casual in her response. "Well. Nice to see you again."

She blinked in obvious confusion, but did not say anything; he smiled stiffly then turned away, annoyed at this failed interaction with her, and feeling petulant that he had been deprived of the change to purchase the last copy of Sanders' book himself. After wandering around the store a little while longer, he circled back to the same non-fiction section, found another of Sanders' work, _Africa Rising_, and decided to purchase it for Sam anyway.

Monday afternoon, post-lunch, Mark found Sam in his office already. He was reading the procured hardback version of _Building Equality Into the System_ and snapped up his head, snapped shut the book, just as Mark entered.

"Ah," said Mark, feigning ignorance. "Your own copy? Who gave you that?"

He swore Sam blushed. "Um…" he said. "My… mum did."

Mark felt the corner of his mouth quirk up in amusement. Of course he wouldn't admit to his mentor that a woman closer to Mark's age than his own had given an expensive book to him as a token of affection. "That was nice of her."

"Yeah," he said, then stuffed the book back into his bag. "So, what would you like me to work on today?"

_There's no direction like misdirection_, Mark thought.

"Some more transcription might be—"

He didn't finish; he couldn't, because at that moment Natasha strode into the room, startling him into silence. "Mark," she said. "There you are. I need to know if our plans are on for tonight."

"Ms Glenville," said Mark coolly; he had promised a week ago to meet with her to talk about a case that straddled the line between their two disciplines, but she kept trying to turn it into a date. He did not want to break his promise, however, and her court date was rapidly approaching. "As you can see," he said, indicating Sam, "it's that time of day where Mr Eccleston is with me. We'll discuss this later."

As soon as Mark mentioned Sam, her demeanour changed to one of sweetness and light. She gave a tinkling laugh. "My apologies, Mr Eccleston. Do forgive me."

Sam wasn't intimidated by her so much as perplexed. "Of course."

She turned back to Mark. "There's nothing to discuss," she said with a cloying tone. "Just tell me if tonight works for you."

_May as well pull the plaster off quickly and get it over with_, he thought. "That's fine."

Her face transformed into a smile. "Fantastic. Pick me up at seven. I've already booked us a table."

"Please close the door behind you; thanks."

She did as he requested. Of course she would have; she had gotten her way.

"Sorry about that," said Mark.

"It's all right," said Sam. "You do have a life outside of work."

It dawned on him exactly what Sam was insinuating, and was about to protest that Natasha was not his girlfriend, but reconsidered; he felt it not an appropriate conversation upon which to embark. His own personal life was as much business of Sam's as Sam's was to him. _Besides_, he thought, _she's the only woman I take out on a regular basis; she practically is my girlfriend._ "As do we all," Mark said instead. "Let me get you started on the transcription. Notes from court last week; nothing urgent, just for records, and if you have any questions please feel free to ask."

"I will."

After handing Sam both the notes and the notebook computer, Sam asked, "You know, I never really thought about the amount of paperwork barristers have to do. It's a lot."

Mark sat behind his desk again, pen in hand and poised to write; he still clung to the techniques he'd learned in university for drafting briefs. "It _is_ a lot," Mark said. "There are times when it seems excessive, but there have been instances when the right motion filed at the right time made all the difference in the world. Dotting those 'i's and crossing those 't's aren't just because we're overly fussy. We're a profession obsessed with the rules."

Sam smiled. "It makes sense when you put it that way."

"Though I doubt stacks of sometimes-mind-numbing paperwork is why anyone goes into the field," Mark quipped.

With that the two of them went silent, falling into their work, until the end of the day, just after five. Mark sometimes worked later, but he didn't want to keep Sam there longer than he was bound to be there, so he decided to leave too. "See you tomorrow," he called after Sam.

"Have a nice night," called back Sam.

Mark felt a certain dread at the thought of the evening before him: he would do his best to remain professional, and she would do her best to attempt to persuade him otherwise. These evenings always left him feeling as if he'd been the rope in a game of tug-of-war, and as he rolled into the drive at ten-thirty—far too late, but at least he'd been able to escape a nightcap at her place—he realised that this night had been no different.

…

The rest of the week rolled forward smoothly, made even better when they collectively received some excellent news. After a sporadic series of updates from Camilla, midweek came the news that her husband was improved enough that he would be going home sooner than expected. The atmosphere within chambers was noticeably cheerier, and he found himself treating even Natasha with a little more generosity.

Sam was, as he had been for the previous two weeks, a quick learner and a diligent, attentive and efficient worker. Mark had always thought himself on top of things, but teaching Sam and having him take care of simple details (which he always double-checked for accuracy) helped Mark to not need to stay in his office late. This had the unfortunate effect of underscoring how lonely he was when he was not at work, and brought his thoughts back to that enigma of a woman, one to whom he was inexplicably attracted and who was herself already attached.

Before Mark knew it they were well into the fourth and final week of the program. He very much looked forward to reporting back to the school in order to give Sam the praise he deserved; by the same token, though, he knew he would quite miss the young man being there in the office every afternoon. He didn't know many young people but of those he knew (like his somewhat buffoonish younger relative Simon, who never would have dreamed taking on work, particularly work for no pay, for the summer break), Sam was by far the one he liked best.

It was then he was struck by an idea so obvious he was surprised it hadn't occurred to him sooner. "Sam," said Mark rather abruptly. "How are you and your mother fixed for Friday night?"

Sam looked momentarily surprised. "Well, I think we're free. Why?"

"I would just like to take you for a little celebratory dinner now that your tenure with us is up, and I'd like nothing more than to meet the woman who raised you."

Slowly a smile spread across Sam's features. "I think she'd really like that," he said. "She's still kind of blue and it'd be nice to go out."

"Perfect, then. How does The Ivy sound?"

Sam nodded. "I went there once with my gran and grandpa," he said with a smile. "Really good burger."

Mark chuckled. "Great. I'll call and book for Friday night."

He was able to get a table for seven-thirty, which he then conveyed to Sam. "Can you and your mum meet me there? I could pick you up if needed," he asked.

"I don't think we'll need it, but if we do I will let you know," said Sam.

"Great. Now, if I could have you take this folder over to Ms Glenville, I would really appreciate it."

Sam tilted his head inquisitively, but reached out and took the sheaf of papers into his hand.

"Is something wrong?" asked Mark.

"No," said Sam. "I just thought—" He stopped short.

Mark prompted. "You thought what?"

"You'd want to take this yourself."

Mark thought back to the previous weekend, when he had finally told Natasha in the plainest language possible that he was not interested in her beyond a partner in chambers, and shook his head slightly. How to explain it to Sam, though? _I'd rather be eaten alive by a shark_ would not have been entirely appropriate, although accurate. "I'd prefer you take it over, if you don't mind. If I walk away from what I'm doing it will be hard to pick it up again."

"Oh," said Sam. "I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have…" He trailed off.

"It's all right," said Mark. "Go on now."

Sam nodded in understanding, then left with the folder.

Mark delved back into his paperwork, and didn't realise until he finished that Sam had not yet returned. He looked up to his clock then to the door just as Sam came back in. "Sorry I was gone so long," he said. "Ms Glenville insisted I wait until she find a case file to bring back to you. Shall I just file it?"

He knew exactly which one it was. "Please."

Sam nodded.

…

Sam's last day was like any other, though as it concluded Mark was feeling a bit emotional. At the end of the day, he gave Sam the book, which Sam seemed completely overwhelmed to receive. "You really didn't need to," he said, his eyes scanning over the table of contents. He glanced up with a smirk. "But thank you."

"My pleasure."

"You and your mum good for tonight, for getting to the restaurant?"

Sam nodded. "I'll keep on her so we're not late."

"Terrific. I'll see you then."

Mark went directly home, freshening up with a quick shave and changing out of his work suit into a slightly more casual suit jacket and trousers of charcoal grey, along with a tie in deep burgundy. As he combed through his hair to tame it, he started thinking inexplicably of Sam's mother, and hoping that she didn't turn out to be another Natasha Glenville, obsessed with work and unable to speak of anything else. After consideration, he thought it unlikely (as unkind a thought as it was) that a woman like Natasha could ever have raised such a well-balanced child.

He embarked for The Ivy with plenty of time to park the car. It was a pleasant evening, especially so for late August with the sun still very much in the sky; this he pondered as he walked down the street towards the entrance. He was led to the reserved table straightaway and he ordered a glass of merlot anticipating their arrival. He was just glancing to his watch—it was twenty-five past the hour—when his attention was caught by at motion in his periphery. He could not quite parse what he was seeing:

Heading his way was Sam, looking very smart in a dress shirt and trousers; accompanying him was a woman, blonde hair brushing against her shoulders, looking quite elegant in the long, flowing sapphire-hued dress she wore. He furrowed his brow.

Sam had brought Bridget, who had the good sense to look a bit confused and dumbfounded herself at fixing her gaze on him.

"You are not Camilla Parkinson," she said as he rose to his full height.

"Sam," Mark said in a brusque but low tone. "What possessed you to bring _her_?"

"But you—" Sam began, but was interrupted by Bridget:

"Do _not_ take that tone with my son, Mark Darcy."

Mark was in his seat again without quite realising having taken it again. "Son," he repeated.

"Yes, _son_," she said, her eyes fierce. "What on earth—who did you think I was to him?"

He felt a bit lightheaded. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Mark heard Sam say, as if from very far away, "Mum? Do you know him?"

"Are you kidding me?" Bridget asked. "You asked me about Sam at the bookstore—" She broke off as her mouth dropped open, as if plucking the information from Mark's head. "Oh my God. You thought—Sam, we're leaving."

"Mum?" Sam asked, confused.

"No, please don't go," Mark said, on his feet again. "I am so very sorry. Let me make it up to you."

Bridget looked like she might stand her ground and take Sam away, as if an insult hovered at the tip of her tongue, but she glanced to Sam, saw the look of bewilderment and disappointment on his face, and lifted her chin. "We'll stay," she conceded. "For Sam's sake."

"Thank you," said Mark, going around the table to pull away Bridget's chair for her, his mind racing at a million miles a minute. Bridget was Sam's _mother_? How could he not have known—but realistically, how _could_ he have? Their names were different, and he thought of her as far too young to have a teenaged son. Most importantly: why had no one told him, particularly at the Turkey Curry Buffet, when they were all so eager to fix him up with her?

But she was right; now was a time for Sam. He cleared his throat and smiled at Sam, who still looked quite perplexed. "So I wanted to do this for the two of you tonight to recognise Sam for the hard work he's done over the last month. And…" His gaze shifted to Bridget. "I really wanted to meet you. You've raised a remarkable boy." He turned back to Sam. "I didn't know that she was your mum, Sam. Yes, we're acquainted. We grew up together."

Sam's confusion did not clear up. "If you grew up together… how did you not know she was my mum? And… what _did_ you think?"

"He thought," said Bridget quietly, "that I'm some kind of cougar interested in men far too young for me."

"Oh," said Sam, though he started to laugh a little. "Ew."

"Yes, ew," said Bridget, stealing a glance at her son, then cracking the barest hint of a smile herself. Within a moment, the two of them were chuckling outright.

"Yes, yes," said Mark, feeling his face flush, tearing his gaze from Bridget, upon whom he realised it had been for far too long. The server came just then, saving him from further ignominy, at least for the moment; Bridget ordered white wine and Sam a tall Coke. Mark asked Sam to choose dinner for all, and unsurprisingly, he chose burgers and chips.

"So he really did well?" asked Bridget; Mark was grateful she was not further pursuing the odd situation in which they had found themselves. With that, Mark was able to praise the boy at great length, enumerating his successes as well as the scant few misfires; as he did, her expression softened in an indefinable way.

"I only mention them," Mark said, "because they're the areas that would need attention if he's to pursue a career in a legal field."

"Do you think he could?" she asked raptly, holding her glass aloft.

"I think he has enormous potential for whatever he sets his sights on," Mark said. "If he wanted to be a barrister, I think he'd be a really good one."

"Do you think he'd have a shot at, like, Cambridge or Oxford?"

"Mum," Sam said, flushing pink.

Mark said without hesitation, "I think Cambridge would be lucky to count him amongst their ranks."

Bridget beamed proudly, as she had every right to do; Mark thought it was the loveliest he'd ever seen her look, then quickly chided himself for thinking it and for staring at her a little too long again. "See, Sam, I told you," she said, poking her son playfully. "Your dad will be so pleased to hear we've got a second, unbiased opinion."

He had never quite seen Sam look so pleased, either.

"Is… Sam's dad a barrister too?" Mark asked with some tentativeness.

Bridget shook her head. "Peter's in his family's business—computer repair and resale. They've got stores in Bangor, Manchester and London. He's currently running the Manchester one."

"Sam mentioned his dad was up north."

"Ah," she said.

"He's a tech nerd," offered Sam.

"His family got into the business at just the right time," said Bridget. "And it is nice to have a tech nerd at your disposal."

"I'm sure," said Mark, suddenly full of questions about their relationship, past and present.

"Be right back, Mum," said Sam, rising.

"You know this means your food will surely come," said Bridget.

"That's my plan," said Sam with a wink. "I'm starving."

The further Sam got out of earshot, the more anxious Mark became. He raised his gaze from his wineglass to meet her own. He had been very wrong about her: the core of her character was plainly evident in the son she had raised; she did not chase after and bed teenagers; and perhaps, most importantly to his own rising interest in her, she was apparently not actually attached. "I really am very sorry about the… misunderstanding."

"The way my mother rattles on about her handsome, brilliant, can-do-no-wrong grandchild," said Bridget, "I thought for sure you must have known."

He shook his head. "I did not have the slightest idea."

"I bet…" she said, coming to some kind of obvious conclusion in her head, "I bet they thought—well, they were hell-bent-for-leather to set us up at the New Year. They probably thought you would not have the slightest interest in a woman with a practically grown kid."

He thought Bridget was probably correct in this assessment of their mothers. "My mother will get an earful at next opportunity," he said.

She gave him a look that was indefinable. "I have to admit I did think you were surly towards me because you disapproved of my situation with Sam."

"I wasn't surly," said Mark, a little too quickly and very defensively.

She chuckled. "You _were_ surly, Mark Darcy. Unless…" She feigned horror. "…you're always like that."

"I'm not," he said. "You must have just caught me at a bad time."

"Maybe it was just the proximity of your girlfriend," said Bridget.

Girlfriend? She must have meant—"Natasha wasn't my girlfriend. _Isn't._"

"She sure seemed to think she was," she said with amusement. "Well, anyway. I'm just astonished that Sam never mentioned you by name. Always talked about the work, or about 'my mentor', and the initial consent form said 'Camilla Parkinson'."

The food arrived just then, followed shortly by Sam himself.

"See? Just like I planned," said Sam, taking his seat again.

"Sam," said Bridget, "why did you never mention—" She glanced to Mark. "—Mr Darcy's name to me?"

"Mr Darcy reminded me not to talk about work details, and I signed a paper," said Sam.

This admission made Mark smile. "I didn't mean you couldn't say my name."

"Oh," said Sam, blushing again.

"Mind you," said Mark, "erring on the side of caution is a good habit to practise, particularly in law."

With that they each seemed to silently agree to tuck into their meals. Mark for one was suddenly hungrier than he thought, but despite this Mark had to agree with Sam that the burger, cooked to perfection, was among the best he'd had; the chips, crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, had obviously been fried in fresh oil.

"It's funny," said Bridget as they wound down eating, "coming to a place like _this_ and getting a burger and chips."

"Did you not like it?"

"Oh, on the contrary, I liked it very much. But a burger and chips seems very… _common_."

At this Mark could not stifle a chuckle. Sam chuckled too. Mark looked to her again, struck once more how naturally pretty she was, even barely wearing any makeup, just glowing with her happiness about her son and about a meal well enjoyed. Then he realised he should probably reply. "I hardly think this place is too posh for a burger, but I take your point."

It was decided that dessert was in order, so they ordered crﾏme brﾞlée for Mark, Turkish Delight ice cream for Sam, and for Bridget—

"The chocolate pudding with peppermint ice cream, please," she said, looking very pleased with the choice.

"Would you care for some coffee?" Mark asked Bridget.

"Yes, please."

"Two decaf coffees, thank you," Mark said.

"And a top up on the Coke," said Sam.

"Of course. Right away," said the server with a bright smile, a young woman probably not that much older than Sam.

After she left, Bridget teased quietly, "I think she was flirting with you, Sam."

"Mum, she wasn't."

"I don't know, I think she was." She turned to Mark. "What do you think?"

"I think I am not the best person to call on regarding this," he said, feeling an unwelcome heat creep around his collar.

"Mum," said Sam again with some insistence, "she had a ring on her engagement finger."

"We'll just wait and see when she comes back," said Bridget.

The server's return with the coffee and the Coke bore out Sam's observation, that she was in fact wearing a ring on her left hand. "I still think she was flirting," said Bridget.

"She was just being friendly," said Sam.

"You've got a real eye for detail," commented Mark. "I certainly hadn't noticed the ring. Having seen it I must say that I would have to agree with you, that she was just being friendly."

"Thank you," Sam said, seemingly proud to have Mark siding with him on this.

Bridget pursed her lips then sipped her coffee.

Dessert arrived shortly thereafter; as he ate, he observed both of them closely, Bridget more than Sam if he were to be totally honest with himself. For a mother and son, they had a relationship that was less parental and more like friends; it wasn't was a relationship that did not work for all parent-child interactions, but it had seemed to work very well for them. Mark knew her age as well as Sam's, calculated that she had borne him at the same age Sam was now; it may well have been that she grew up alongside of Sam.

He also observed that every time he glanced at Sam, Sam was regarding him in a very odd way. Mark could not quite discern what it meant. After Bridget made excuses to visit the ladies, Sam asked, "So you knew my mum when she was younger?"

"Much," he said. "She was four, and I was eight."

Sam laughed. "That's pretty young."

"I hadn't seen her for years and years. Certainly I didn't know she'd gotten married and had a baby."

"Other way around," said Sam. "They got married after I came. They didn't stay married long. They were just too young."

This coming from a sixteen-year-old struck him as pretty funny.

"But they're still close," prompted Mark.

"Oh, yeah. Mostly Mum raised me, but Dad was always there too. It was pretty much just me, Mum and Dad, and we always take care of each other."

"That's the way it should be."

There was that odd look again from Sam. "If I'm gonna be honest, I always get really protective when—What on Earth?"

Mark felt a bit whiplashed, speculating exactly to where Sam had been heading—_A perceptive young man, indeed_, he thought—before Sam had shifted his plate and discovered a scrap of paper beneath.

"What is that?" Mark asked.

Sam moved it aside to have a better look, then smirked. "Mum was right, after all." He passed the paper to Mark. It was unmistakeably a mobile number; Mark started to laugh. The server had in fact been flirting.

"What'd I miss?"

It was Bridget, just returned; Mark pushed the paper towards her and she picked it up and looked at it. "I don't understand," she said.

"It was under my ice cream plate," Sam said, then smirked as if in anticipation of the penny dropping.

Drop it did. She smiled the smile of the self-satisfied. "Ha! I knew it! Women's intuition beats barrister-esque observation every time!"

Sam took the number back.

"You're not thinking of phoning her, are you?" asked Mark. "She's engaged."

"Maybe she's not," said Bridget. "Maybe she just wears it to keep scores of men from hitting on her. I mean, she's really attractive, isn't she?" She looked to Mark as if to encourage his agreement, which he declined to do.

"Pfft," said Sam. "I'm not calling her. She's too old for me."

Bridget returned to the remains of her pudding. With a voice laden with mock lament, she said, "You are _not_ a normal boy, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam said. "I'm your son."

This made her laugh again, and made Mark realise he was almost mesmerised by her once more. He politely chuckled and turned to his decaf coffee as if it were the most important thing in his life at the moment. In a way, it was. It served as the cornerstone for his thoughts: his interest in Bridget, which had begun long before this evening; his fondness for Sam, which had grown over the past month; and the implied warning from a son concerned about his mother, one which Mark took very much to heart.

"This has been an eye-opening evening," Bridget said, which caused him to snap back to the present. Had she been reading his mind? She carried on, "But we should probably think about winding it down, you know, and get home."

"Of course," he said. He turned to locate the server, catching her eye and nodding to indicate they were ready to leave and he wanted to settle the bill. "I've had a really enjoyable night."

"So have I," said Bridget. "Thank you, from both of us." He liked to think the warmness of her smile was more than politeness.

"Yes, thanks," said Sam.

After paying the bill, they headed for the exit and once upon the street Mark saw Bridget dig into her handbag to fish out her mobile. Instantly he said, "Do you need driving home?"

"Oh," she said, waving her mobile. "I was just going to phone for a taxi—"

"Nonsense," Mark said. "It would be my pleasure."

She looked like she might protest, but then nodded. "We'd like that. Thanks."

As he drove towards their neighbourhood, the war was still waging in his head; he wanted so much to see her again, more than he would have thought given their previous face-to-face encounter, but obviously there was much more to the equation than the two of them. It seemed very much that Sam admired him, but did he want a prospective step-father? Given his aborted warning of sorts, it did not seem so, not at all.

"You'll want to turn left there, then it's just on the left," said Bridget, interrupting him from his thoughts; he pulled his car directly in front of what turned out to be her building, which housed a pub on the first floor.

"Perfect," she said. He rose from the car then opened her door for her; her surprise registered quite plainly on her face as he held out a hand to help her up out of the car. She laughed lightly as he accepted it and stood. "Well, thank you again, and thanks for everything with Sam."

"Of course," he said, then added abruptly, "I hope you'll stay in touch. I mean, if you need help with anything. Applying to Cambridge. References. That sort of thing."

Sam said, "Thanks. I will. And thanks again for the book."

Mark suddenly remembered the day Sam had brought in the book Bridget had bought for him at Waterstones, and he laughed, remembering Sam's answer when asked who had bought the book for him. He must have just been embarrassed that his mum was buying him presents. "You are most welcome, Sam." He turned, locking his gaze to hers, nodding his head slightly. "Bridget. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mark," she said.

Sam dug into his pocket and put his arm around his mother's shoulder, rather obviously herding her towards the door. "Goodnight," Sam called after twisting the key in the lock, giving a friendly wave as they entered the building.

Mark opened his door, fired up the engine again and headed for home, nearly on the same path he'd just taken in order to get south of the Thames. He sighed, watching the orange hues of sunset playing along the top edges of the buildings as he cut north and west through London towards his own home. He could no longer deny he had a very strong attraction to Bridget despite knowing he shouldn't, though now for utterly different reasons; she had a son who was very protective of her and Mark had to respect Sam's feelings. He had not intended on making life this much more complicated. _Then again_, he mused, _who ever does?_


	3. Chapter 3

**The Barrister's Apprentice**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 34,894 (six chapters and an epilogue); this chapter: 4,823  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p>Chapter 3.<p>

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Mark, I haven't the faintest to what you refer."

"Mother," said Mark rather impatiently that Saturday over his morning coffee. "I had dinner last night with my student worker… and his mother."

"You're being very obtuse, Mark."

"His mother is Bridget Jones."

There was a long period of silence. "Oh."

"Yes, Mother, 'Oh'."

"Mark," she said almost defensively. "You must understand that while we had heard so many good things about him, heard he was such a nice young man, we didn't want you to see only that she had a son and not see her for who she was, when you met her again."

"As I thought," he said quickly, then sighed. His mother's comment suggested that Sam didn't know the Darcys, which explained why Sam hadn't had a glimmer of recognition on Mark's surname.

"Plus, he was on holiday with his father like he is every year… but you liked your student, though, right? That's good news, a very promising start."

"It isn't anything," he said, then sighed in his frustration. "Sorry. That's the irony, isn't it?"

"Mark, I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Nothing," he said, letting out a long breath again. "It's nothing. I should… probably get going. I haven't had breakfast yet."

"No wonder you sound so disconnected. Go have yourself a big fry-up."

Reluctantly he chuckled; the last thing he wanted was a great big fried breakfast on top of an unsettled stomach. "Talk to you soon."

He disconnected, considered his coffee again, and kicked himself for being such a stubborn fool back in January when he'd had a chance. He would have, contrary to what everyone had assumed of him, very much liked to have had a son like Sam.

…

The weekend seemed an utter bust. He had intended on getting so much done, but the current state of his personal life drove him to distraction. This had the added effect of a bit of self-loathing; he had always prided himself on keeping his personal life as drama-free as possible, particularly after the fiasco with his now ex-wife.

Love / hate.

On Monday morning, the first stop he made was to swing by Jeremy's office, after a glimmer of memory he'd had over shaving that morning: Jeremy had said he knew Sam's mother.

He wasted no time asking Jeremy about Sam and about her.

"I knew it," said Jeremy. "Knew you were going to miss the kid. Hoping to stay in touch?"

"Mm," he said vaguely; he did, but that wasn't the purpose of this fact-finding mission. "So how do you know Sam's mother?"

"She's a friend of my wife's. They go way back. I've watched that boy grow up. Great kid; his dad's a pretty great bloke too."

"As it turns out," Mark said, "I know his mother too."

"Do you?" asked Jeremy, surprise then concern on his features.

"Don't worry. It won't affect my objectivity at all regarding Sam. I only found out on Friday night."

"Still, that's an awfully odd coincidence," said Jeremy. "So… are you hoping for more than to just stay in touch with Sam?"

Mark pursed his lips, which made Jeremy laugh.

"Well, she is a very lovely woman. No wonder Natasha's been in such a foul mood this last week. Finally give her the boot?"

"We were never seeing one another that way," he said. "That she thought there was more of an attachment is not my fault."

"But you slept together."

Mark sighed, thinking back to that weekend of the country soirée, the weekend of Bridget-as-bunny-girl…. "_Once_. And it was an enormous mistake, under the effect of too much wine. And… Bridget was there that weekend."

Jeremy grinned. "'If you can't be with the one you love…'" he began, quoting the song. "I see now."

Mark was about to protest, but realised there might have been a grain of truth to what Jeremy said. Had he succumbed to the moment because he had really wanted to be with another woman, with Bridget? He decided to change the subject instead. "So about Sam's dad. What can you tell me about him, about them?"

Jeremy did not have to ask why he wanted to know. "They met in Wales when she was up visiting her gran one summer, and saw one another every time she went north. I'm pretty sure they're the same age. She got pregnant and had Sam the spring just after her sixteenth birthday. They got married after that. Lived for a while with his parents up in Bangor, in their granny cottage, then she went to university there while he took some computer courses and learned the ropes in the family business." Jeremy stopped to sip his coffee; Mark was almost literally on the edge of his seat. "After she graduated, she wanted to be nearer her parents, so she got a job in London and his parents backed him to open a new store there. They both flourished, as did Sam, but I think the success of the London store brought about the failure of the marriage. When they were very busy with school and training to work and tending to a very small child, they didn't notice the real issues—probably, in all honestly, they were too tired to notice. But after five years married, they had grown into very different people."

"They'd grown up."

"Yes. But they were still very close, still loved each other even if they were no longer _in_ love, and Sam never suffered for whatever problems they might have had. In fact, finances necessitated they live in the flat together for a long time after splitting. We met them back then; I met her through Magda. Never knew they weren't even married anymore for the longest time."

Mark smiled.

"It seemed pretty clear after almost a decade that the London store was rock solid, so Peter decided he was needed up in Manchester, to try to work his magic on the store there. Seems to be working too. She's still in the flat, they're still close."

"And Sam's a great kid."

"Yeah, he is," said Jeremy. "So, now you know."

"Know what?"

"That there is no chance on earth of their ever reconciling as a couple."

Mark knew what he was really saying, and despite hating being so bloody transparent, he offered a smile. There was the matter, though, of Bridget not liking him very much—one pleasant night in Sam's company did not interest on her part make—and Sam evidently aware of his interest and warning him off. "I don't know if I have a ghost of a chance."

"If you don't try, you'll have less than that," said Jeremy with a wink.

He knew his friend and colleague was right. He just had no idea what do to about it.

"I'm sure you'll think of something. You're clever," continued Jeremy. "You're still coming for supper tonight?"

He had been looking forward to it more than he'd wanted to admit. He was tired of being lonely. "Absolutely. Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Great," said Jeremy with a broad grin on his face. "Great."

…

Having been advised in advance of what was to be on the menu that night, _b?f bourguignon_**, **Mark stopped to pick up a couple of bottles of red wine for dinner and arrived early, as he usually did. Magda greeted him at the door with a peck to each cheek and a broad grin as she took the carrier bag from his grasp. "So I hear we have a mutual friend," said Magda said.

He should have known Jeremy would tell his wife all about it. "So it would seem," Mark said.

"Come on, let's get a bottle opened. Dinner's just about ready." He followed her to the kitchen, where she went directly for the corkscrew. He thought that might be the end of it, but he was wrong. "I used to try to fix Bridget up with all of the single men I knew," she said as she drove the corkscrew into the bottle, "you know, the ones who _weren't_ mad, raging alcoholics or with mummy issues, but she never went for it. Didn't want to confuse Sam when he was still so young by imposing a stepfather-figure on him."

He thought about Sam speaking of his mother's boyfriend and the heartache she had suffered when they'd split; only now did he realise Sam must have meant Daniel. Clearly at some point she'd started dating again, so he wondered what the point of mentioning this to him was—

"Look who turned up at my door!"

Mark froze, then looked to Magda, who had a mischievous grin on her face. At that moment he knew what the point of the story was, what she had done, what the husband and wife had conspired to do together.

It was Bridget's voice.

He pushed the kitchen door aside to see her standing there, giving Jeremy a greeting kiss hello; Magda pushed forward to greet her. Mark's gaze fell on the man she had come in with, felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. He was a handsome fellow, tall, long-limbed, with short blondish brown hair, aquiline nose, spectacles. There was something of an air of familiarity about him, but Mark couldn't quite place it; did he know this man from somewhere?

As she asked Magda if it was all right that she'd brought him along, the man looked towards the kitchen, towards where Mark stood hovering at the door, and as he did, Bridget did too. She looked very clearly stunned. "Oh!" she said, interrupting herself. "I had no idea you'd be here."

"Hi," said Mark, advancing forward with the open bottle of red. "Nice to see you again."

Sheepishly she said, "Sorry, I didn't mean it that way. It's nice to see you too." She shot a penetrating glance at Magda. "I should have put it together that you work with Jeremy."

"Bridge, who's this?" said the man Mark did not know, a distinct intimacy towards her in his tone.

"Oh, this is Mark Darcy," said Bridget.

"Sam's mentor?" He smiled, then extended his hand for a shake. "Nice to meet you."

Mark accepted the shake, but was very confused. "And you are…?"

"Sorry, sorry," Bridget said. "This is Peter. Sam's dad."

He should have known why he'd seemed so familiar. He was physically very like his son. "Very nice to meet you, too. Your son was a pleasure to have in the office."

"He has very nice things to say about you," said Peter with a sincere smile. "_And_ you greet us bearing wine. Excellent."

"Come, dinner's on," chirped Magda.

As they headed towards the dining room, Mark said to Peter, "I'd heard you lived in Manchester."

Peter nodded. "I do. I'm down to fetch Sam. He's spending the rest of the break with me."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll _love_ that," said Magda. "And you'll have him out of your hair for a few, right, Bee?"

"Right," Bridget said, taking a seat beside Peter; Mark took one across from her. "Not that he's much trouble."

"But it's got to be nice to have the place to yourself," said Magda; Mark saw Bridget glare at Magda. "Be right back. Jeremy, come, help me bring the food in. Mark, if you would pour the wine, that'd be great, but I'm not having any."

Mark went towards Bridget first; it seemed only courteous. "Care for some wine?" he asked her.

"No, I'll pass."

Peter laughed. "You, pass up wine?"

"I don't like red," she said.

"I'll find you some white," said Peter. "Be right back." Peter took her wineglass then went directly to the kitchen as if he'd done so many times before.

Without another comment, he moved to pour into Jeremy's, Peter's then his own glass, which nearly took care of that first bottle.

"Didn't mean to sound snappish," Bridget said quietly, breaking the silence. "I'm sorry."

"Well, if you don't like red, I would not want to force it upon you." He glanced up and offered a small smile, his attention on her appearance now that he wasn't distracted by her ex-husband: she wore a summery cotton dress with a lovely daisy pattern printed on it; her feet were clad in heeled sandals of moderate height with pale yellow ribbons around her ankles; her hair was swept up and a large silk daisy pinned in. It was only the sound of Peter returning with the white as well as the second bottle of red that tore his attention away.

"Here you are, Bee," he said, glancing from Mark to Bridget, then handed her white wine in the proper glass. "Even well-chilled."

"Thanks, Waspy."

The light laugh that erupted from Peter made Mark wonder precisely what his features had done. Bridget had clearly said it without thinking and she turned scarlet.

"It's an old nickname from way back," Peter explained as he sipped his own wine.

"Ah," said Mark, then smiled at the thought of it; he couldn't imagine having the sort of intimacy with his own ex-wife that the two of them still had. He envied their position, in a way. Still friends, and a wonderful son to bond them for the rest of their lives.

"Bee for my first initial, obviously," Bridget began to explain. "And Waspy… Well, he's taller than me, always has been, long, you know, thin and wiry…" She faltered.

"Like a wasp?" offered Mark.

"Mm, yes, exactly," said Bridget, then sipped her wine. Mark heard Peter chuckle again.

"So, Peter." Magda spoke as she pushed through the door bearing a serving spoon, holding it open for Jeremy who bore a platter heaped with their dinner, which smelled wonderful—reminding Mark exactly how hungry he was—and sent curls of steam up in its wake. Magda began serving as she continued, "How was your drive? Pleasant, I trust?"

"Smooth as silk," he said. "Glad to have climate control in the car though—a bit hot out there on the asphalt today."

"I bet," said Jeremy. "Last little heat wave before we hit autumn, do you think?"

"I hope so," said Peter. "Can't take much more of this."

Bridget snorted a bit of a laugh, patting his hand. "You know the moment the temperature gets in the single digits you'll be bitching about how cold it is, and how much you want the heat back."

This caused them all to laugh, all but Mark, who did not know him well enough to think it as funny as they did. It was, oddly enough, Peter who seemed to notice Mark was retreating from conversation, and said, "So Sam really enjoyed his time working with you in chambers. Seems pretty fired up about what you do." He paused. "Do you really think he's got potential for that sort of thing?"

"No pressure, Mark," joked Jeremy.

Mark chuckled a little too, then said, "In all seriousness, I do." He lifted a forkful of beef, but paused just short of eating it. "He was soaking it up like a sponge."

"He's always been really interested in a world perspective," said Peter. "Bridget swears it's because she brought him to all of these book 'dos growing up."

"Hard to avoid," Bridget said. "Some boys did book reports for school questioning an author's intention." She chuckled. "Not Sam. He took his questions straight to the authors without an ounce of shyness."

This caused them all to laugh.

"Thought he might turn out to be a writer, truth be told," said Peter. "Never shown much knack for electronics and gadgets."

"He might yet still be a writer," said Bridget.

"Well, anyway. It sounds like you had a real rapport with Sam," asked Peter. After a thoughtful moment, he asked Mark, "So what about you? Any kids?"

Silence fell around the table until Jeremy started making a weird sound that was obviously a restrained laugh.

Magda said with a wink, "We keep telling him he can't put it off forever. Tick-tock."

Jeremy started to laugh outright; Mark knew this was a favourite saying of their friend Cosmo, who trotted that line out to any single woman who turned up to their dinner parties. Peter's question seemed an honest enquiry regarding someone he had only just met; he was annoyed, however, at Jeremy's and Magda's response, addressing publicly something which they both knew he preferred to keep private. Mark shifted his gaze and caught Bridget looking both amused and uncomfortable.

"Suppose he'd need a lady first," sputtered Jeremy.

"Maybe he doesn't want them," Bridget said abruptly, coming to his defence. This took him aback in a wholly different way, touching him unexpectedly and deeply.

"I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to be rude," said Peter, clearly penitent. "I just thought… well, as great as I heard you were with Sam that you must have had some experience with children."

Mark looked from Bridget to meet Peter's gaze. "No offence taken," he said. "You flatter me greatly regarding Sam." He then turned to Jeremy and Magda. "I have not ruled out having children," said Mark. "In fact, I'd quite welcome them someday."

"Best be sooner rather than later," said Jeremy, "or else you'll put out your back picking up the little tyke." He then laughed again, slapping his thigh almost comically.

"Jeremy, enough," said Bridget, surprising Mark again. "Just because there are some of us got an early start doesn't mean there's anything wrong with getting a later one."

"Oh, Mark knows I'm just giving him a hard time," Jeremy said with a roar of laughter.

"That's enough wine for you," said Magda. "Mark, I am sorry to have encouraged him. I know you prefer to keep your personal life personal, and I know you know Jeremy has no tact whatsoever."

Mark smiled. "Yes, I'm all too aware." He picked up his glass out of habit to hide his dislike of this attention to find it was empty, and realised the second bottle was still in the kitchen (as was the corkscrew). He rose to leave the table. "Speaking of wine…"

"I could do that," said Magda, pushing her chair back.

"It's all right; I can manage it," Mark said, then walked directly through and into the kitchen.

The wine and the corkscrew were right where they'd been left earlier, and he wasted no time getting the screw into the cork. He eased the cork up and out; as the bottle's neck made a soft sigh of release, he heard the hinge on the kitchen door squeak. Curious to see who had followed him, he turned, saw no one; this meant the other kitchen door had been the one to open, the one leading to the sitting room and the rest of the house.

He turned again, then saw that the person who joined him was not yet as tall as the kitchen island. Magda and Jeremy's four-year-old daughter, Constance, stood there in her nightgown, her ginger hair sleep-tousled, her feet bare on the tiled floor, her little face wet from crying. He set the wine bottle down on the countertop. She looked up to Mark with round blue eyes. "I had a bad dream," she said.

He had met Constance before and she obviously recognised him, but Mark was not entirely sure what to do in this situation. He thought making himself not quite so tall and imposing was a good start. "I can see that," said Mark, crouching down eye to eye with her, reaching for and taking her small hand in his, holding it reassuringly, wiping her cheeks dry with his free thumb. "It must have been very scary. Are you okay now?"

She nodded. "I want my mummy. And maybe some Horlicks."

He chuckled. "We'll see if your mummy says that's all right."

He rose to his full height again only to realise that they had been joined by a third person through the door which swung silently: Bridget. She held her now-empty glass in her hand and had an odd smile on her face, somewhere between wistful and pleased.

Constance saw her at the same moment and her face lit up. "Auntie Bee!" Constance turned, ran to Bridget and wrapped her arms around her legs. "Make me Horlicks and I want some cake, too, okay?"

Bridget burst out with a little laugh, then set her glass down and picked up the girl. To Mark she said, "Just coming in for more wine myself. Glad to see everything's under control." Then to Constance: "We'll still have to see what Mummy says, Little Cee. So it was a bad dream, was it?"

Constance nodded. "I was in the zoo in the monkey cage and the penguins were trying to chase me."

"Penguins in the monkey cage?" asked Bridget.

"I don't think they were _really_ penguins," she said authoritatively, "but I like penguins and the monkeys were bad and were trying to trick me. They were trying to give me sweets. And cake."

"So why did the monkeys want you to go with them?"

"To go to the dentist! I had to go to the dentist today and they poked at my teeth. It was scary. And he told me I couldn't have sweets."

Bridget laughed lightly then kissed her cheek. "Well. Why don't we—"

"What in the world—Constance, what are you doing out of bed?" Magda came in and looked a bit horrified that her guests had been thus inconvenienced. "Mark, Bridget, I am so sorry—"

"It's all right," Mark said tenderly as he regarded the lovely scene of the cherubic-looking four-year-old with her arms around Bridget's neck, her face buried into Bridget's shoulder for maximum pathos. "She had a nightmare."

"She wants Horlicks," said Bridget.

"And cake!" insisted Constance in a muffled voice.

Magda fought a smirk as she took her daughter from Bridget's arms. "There is no cake to be had, Constance. Let's go back to bed then I'll bring some Horlicks for you." Magda looked to the two of them. "Go on back to the table, take the wine, enjoy your food. Sorry for this."

"Magda, don't apologise," said Bridget. "I remember what it was like when Sam was that age."

"Thanks, Bridge." With that Magda exited through the slightly squeaky door. Mark turned for the bottle of red while Bridget went over to the refrigerator for the white. She struggled to wrench the cork out of the bottle, but it was unyielding.

"Here, allow me."

"It's all right. I've got it." She twisted and pulled and finally, with a loud pop, the cork released; unfortunately, it was at the expense of the front of her dress, pale and light enough before being splashed in white wine and slightly translucent now. "Bugger," she said breathlessly.

Instinctively Mark set the bottle down again with one hand as he reached for a dish towel with the other; he then pressed it to her front without full appreciation of the ramifications. She jerked back but placed her hand over the towel to keep it from falling.

"Sorry," he said, flushing with heat; in his mortification he turned to pour the wine for her, risking a glance back to her when he finished.

"I know you were just trying to help," she said, equally flushed.

"I promise that's all it was," he said.

She offered a smile then a little laugh. "I know. Come on, let's go back out there before Jeremy and Peter start to think the kitchen is eating people."

He chuckled. "Yes, let's."

With the bottle in hand yet again they emerged to the querulous looks of Peter and Jeremy. "Was beginning to wonder," said Jeremy.

Peter looked at Mark, then to Bridget (who still had the dish towel pressed to her front with her free hand). "What happened in there?"

"Constance had a bad dream," said Mark. "Magda's putting her back to bed and making her some Horlicks."

Peter smirked. "And how does your dress factor into this, Bee?"

"I… had a little trouble with the wine cork." Bridget then changed the subject: "Did Constance see a dentist today?"

The two of them took their seats again. Mark was thankful that not so much time had passed that his food had gone cold; he poured himself that hard-won glass of red and took a sip. As he did, his gaze floated lazily across the table to Bridget, where she was still patting at her dress. He continued eating; conversation kicked up around him; Magda returned and advised that all was well in Bedfordshire; however, Mark hardly participated in these interactions. He could only focus on his food and on the lovely woman across the table.

After dinner they moved away from the confines of the dining room table and into the sitting room for coffee and biscuits, but Bridget then suggested their group take their dessert out to the attached garden patio to better take advantage of the pleasant evening. The men hung back by the house; Jeremy and Peter talking about football by Mark's side as Bridget and Magda sat on a stone bench evidently stargazing and chatting.

The cover of relative dark gave him a chance to study her further, and as he did he realised how much he wanted to spend more time with her, talk with her on a one-to-one basis, see if he could elicit one of those smiles, or better still, laughs; naturally, he was intrigued by what it might be like to hold her in his arms. It seemed to him, though, that she didn't care to be around him at all, didn't like him one bit, particularly when he compared their interactions together with how she was with Magda, Jeremy and especially Peter. With him, she was polite but seemed only to tolerate his presence, but with her friends she was warm, unrestrained, sharing physical affection in the form of pats on the shoulder or quick little hugs. Even more intriguing to him was that she was so quick to laugh, even at her own expense; her comments revealed a quick wit and keen observation. Such a difference from his ex, from the likes of Natasha.

His eyes drifted down to her calves; he could not deny (as much as he liked to pretend such thoughts were beneath him) that simply looking at her, watching her, had an enormous effect on him. He had observed at their earliest meetings that she was pretty, had learned quickly he'd been attracted to her, but better knowing her, seeing her features animated by that sparkling personality, made her one of the most beautiful women he'd ever known, and made her more desirable to him than ever. As she sat on the garden bench in the moonlight, that beauty shone through even as she brought a cigarette to her lips to take a long draw. As if spellbound, Mark watched as she then exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke; an unhealthy, filthy habit, one he'd always despised, practised by such a lovely—

"Have you known Bridget long?"

Peter's quietly inquisitive voice startled Mark from his thoughts. He reined in his visible reaction as best he could, noticed Jeremy had stepped away. "Since we were very young, actually," Mark said smoothly. "We just lost touch when I went off to Eton."

Peter chuckled. "She _must_ have been young."

"Naked-in-paddling-pool young," said Mark.

At this Peter chuckled under his breath. "That I can imagine," he said, then sipped his coffee. Mark took the opportunity to sip his own. It had gone rather tepid.

Mark then cleared his throat; he was curious about the man, wanted more information about him and his relationship with her to fill in what Jeremy couldn't, but hated that he felt like he was doing it in the most surreptitious way possible. "Jeremy mentioned that you and Bridget… got together very young."

Peter smiled. "Young and impetuous," he said, "and we knew it all. Still, I can't say I have any regrets. We've more or less grown up together."

Mark wished he could have said the same. He sipped again just to give himself something to do.

Peter continued, "I feel a bit more like a brother to her now than an ex-husband, if I'm to be perfectly honest."

This extemporaneous admission surprised Mark. "It's good that you've stayed close, I think," said Mark, staying neutral as he tried to gauge where the conversation might be heading. "For Sam."

"Mm, yes," Peter said. "Sam's been lucky, and for that I'm glad. He's secure in his parents' love, so when someone new comes into the picture he's pretty okay with it."

"Someone new?" echoed Mark.

"Oh, sure, boyfriend for her, girlfriend for me… though after that Cleaver fellow she's declared she's off men forever."

Mark didn't know quite what to say; he certainly didn't have details of their split, but could easily believe Daniel had catalysed the split.

"Of course," Peter went on, "I don't believe her for a second. I mean… _you_ seem like a nice chap."

Mark was very glad he had no more coffee to sip, because he surely would have choked on it. "I'm not sure I follow."

Peter grinned. "If I may be so bold, Mark," he said, "your attention has been on her all night."

He was glad for the darkness; it well camouflaged his embarrassment. "Has it?" The disingenuous question fell from his lips before he could stop it. "Sorry. I didn't think I was being obvious."

"You weren't all that obvious," confessed Peter. "I was immediately suspicious that you were here as a Magda set-up—" Magda's words from earlier echoed in Mark's ears. "—so I sort of kept my eye on you; you know, after the Cleaver thing I feel a bit protective of her. But I couldn't help notice the way you looked at her."

He felt his defences rise; he was not a man who cared to have his desires on display—or to have them noticed by others. "If not for my working with Sam, she would be hard pressed to give me the time of day, so it hardly matters what my perspective is."

"I think it's difficult to know how she—"

"It's pointless," Mark said abruptly, surprising even himself with his sharp tone; maybe he felt a little weak or vulnerable at having been observed (especially by her ex-husband), and felt doubly so now that the curtness of his words had garnered the women's attention.

"Pointless? What's pointless?" asked Bridget, reaching down to stub the fag end into the cool, damp soil and inadvertently giving him an especially interesting view down the front of her dress before tossing the fag end into the bin.

"Discussing politics or religion with some people," supplied Peter. "Isn't that right, Mark?"

"Absolutely," Mark replied, feeling a bit spun around.

Bridget sat up again, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. "You can say that again. Ohh." Suddenly she was on her feet, rubbing her hands along her upper arms. "Brr. Getting chilled. Let's go back inside." Magda led the way. Bridget passed close by the two of them. Mark resisted the urge to offer his jacket to her.

"As I said," Peter said quietly, "I don't believe for a second she's given up on men."

Mark said in his surprise, "But she—"

"Perhaps needs encouragement," Peter interrupted.

Mark liked the idea, yet at the same time, did not actually think it would do any good.

They all did not stay much longer; Peter wanted to turn in early in order to get on with the drive back north just after breakfast. "We'll get back just in time for Sam to come with me for measurements." While the others reacted positively, Mark was perplexed; he had no idea to what Peter referred. Peter saw his confusion and said, "Tuxedo fitting, the two of us, could only get in tomorrow." When Mark still seemed not to grasp it, Peter added, "For the wedding. I'm getting married in November."

"Congratulations," Mark said in automatic response.

"Very special lady, that Phoebe," said Magda. "Completely understands that Bridget is no threat, and truly adores Sam."

"That's very nice," Mark said. "Very nice to hear. Wish you every happiness."

"Thank you. Well, Bee, let's hit the road. I'm tired and that sofa's getting lonely."

It suddenly dawned on Mark what Peter meant. "You're staying at Bridget's?"

"Yes, of course he is," Bridget retorted. "He always stays with me when he's in London."

Mark didn't reply; he felt so foolish he turned away.

Peter and Bridget said their goodbyes to Magda and Jeremy. Mark offered his hand to Peter for a parting shake. "Please say hello to Sam from me, and safe travels on the drive tomorrow."

"I certainly will."

Mark turned to Bridget, offering a smile as he considered what he might say to her. Ultimately he decided on a simple, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she said in a pleasant voice, though regarded him with an odd expression.

After they'd gone, Mark realised he should go too. As he dug for his keys, Jeremy began chuckling to himself. Then Magda joined in. He asked what was so funny.

"You are," said Magda, giving him a friendly hug goodbye. "You should have just asked her for dinner or something."

They too had clearly seen him looking at Bridget. His horror was complete. "I'm not a glutton for punishment," he said.

"Oh, don't say that."

"Are you saying she _doesn't_ dislike me?" said Mark in a hushed voice, mindful of the sleeping children upstairs. "Because if you are, I'd say you're either completely oblivious or borderline delusional." This only made Jeremy chuckle more.

Magda, however, regarded him with a look he recognised, one of the fiercest expressions on Earth: her maternal glare. "I'm saying," she said evenly, "she has yet to see the real you."


	4. Chapter 4

**The Barrister's Apprentice**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 34,894 (six chapters and an epilogue); this chapter: 6,079  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p>Chapter 4.<p>

It took less than a day for his resolve to break. In fact, it was as he finished his lunch that he gave up fighting it altogether. As if he were some love-struck schoolboy, he couldn't get her out of his head; the echoes of the voices of Peter and Magda encouraging him to at least try did nothing to help the situation. He knew he had to act before he went mad.

Locating her telephone number was proving nigh on impossible. He'd taken the day off from chambers, so popping into Jeremy's office to ask was not an option, not that he necessarily wanted Jeremy to know how desperate he was to have her number. There were far too many 'B Jones' listings in the phone directory—assuming that her number was even in there. It occurred to him fairly quickly that he had another way, and he wasn't proud to be considering it:

Sam. He had the boy's mobile number in his phone as a 'just in case' from the work program.

It rang several times before someone picked up. "Hello?"

Mark became suddenly tongue-tied. "Hello. Is this Sam?"

"Yes," he said, dragging out the word. "Who's this?"

"Mark," he said, then elaborated, "Mark Darcy."

"Oh, hey," said Sam. "Didn't expect you to phone me. What's up?"

"Nothing urgent," he said, a blatant lie to his own ears. He cleared his throat. "I wonder if you might be able to help me."

"You know I'm in Manchester, right?"

"Yes, I do," he said. "You don't have to be here in London to do it."

"Oh, okay," Sam said. After a pause, he asked, "So what is it?"

"Yes, of course," said Mark, realising suddenly he hadn't actually said yet. "I was hoping you might be able to help me. I'm looking for a number. Actually… your mother's number."

Sam didn't answer right away. "Why?"

"Why?" echoed Mark.

"Why do you want her number?" Sam elaborated, as if the question hadn't been obvious enough. "Is this about school?"

"School? No, it's not about school. I—" He exhaled quickly. "I'd like to call—" He paused. Stupid. Of course he wanted to call; he was asking for her number, for pity's sake. "—to see if she'll meet me, rather, join—er, have supper with me."

"You want to ask my mum out," Sam said in plainer terms. Was that amusement tingeing his voice, or a bit of that protective jealousy?

"If you want to put it that way," said Mark. "Yes."

"On a date."

"Yes, I suppose it would be."

"But you have a girlfriend."

"I don't," said Mark. "I was never dating Ms Glenville. She just liked to… come on strong."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"Sam, are you there?"

"I'm here," said Sam. "Um. Have you got a pen?"

Mentally he hit himself hard on the forehead; he dashed for a pen and notepad on the kitchen counter. "Yes," he said. "Go on."

Sam then rattled off his mother's mobile number. Mark wrote it down carefully, then read it back to ensure he hadn't transposed or missed numbers.

"Thank you, Sam," he said. "I'm sorry to bother you for this." After a pause, he added, "It's not too odd for you, that I want to… make this call, is it?"

"It is, a bit, to be honest," said Sam. "I mean, it's not odd that she might accept, because it's not like she hasn't been on dates before. I just—well, you're really unlike any of the others I've met."

Mark's thoughts went immediately to Daniel. "I hope that's a compliment," Mark said gently.

Sam went quiet again, until finally he said, "Yeah, it is."

He thanked Sam again, said he hoped he'd have a nice time in Manchester, and reminded him about any assistance he might have wanted pertaining to university.

"Mr Darcy?" Sam said just before Mark was about to hang up.

"Yes, Sam?" asked Mark.

"Promise me one thing."

"Of course," thought Mark, eager to say he would absolutely treat her well, not hurt her—

"If she says no, promise me you won't be offended."

"Pardon?"

"Well, it's a possibility," said Sam, "and I hope you and I can be friends still if she doesn't want to."

"Of course we can," said Mark, though felt a building confidence that she would; it was not that he felt too full of himself, but the facts stood for themselves: there had never been a woman he'd asked for supper who had refused, not that there were many he'd asked. With that he said goodbye then disconnected the call. He looked at the number that he had noted before dialling it and waiting for her to answer.

"Hello, Bridget Jones."

"Hello Bridget," he said. It was rather stupid how his heart was hammering in his chest. "It's Mark."

"Mark?" she said. "Mark Darcy?"

"Yes," he said with a smile. "I hope I haven't phoned at a bad time."

"No, it's fine, I'm just… I didn't know you had my number."

"I… Sam gave it to me."

"Did he?" she said, more of a statement than a question. "Well. What can I do for you?"

He recalled his verbal fumble while speaking with Sam, and vowed not to make the same gaffe. In a clear, confident voice, he said, "I'd like to invite you out for dinner."

"Oh," she said, surprise evident in her voice. "Why?"

He was stunned even as he thought, _Like mother, like son_. "What do you mean, 'Why'?"

She chuckled, which sent his temper flaring; how could she find this funny? "I just can't imagine any circumstance in which you'd willingly want to spend time with me, that's all."

_Why would she say that?_ he thought, as he pursued her answer: "Will you, though?"

"Thanks, but no."

He hadn't thought he'd been rude or offensive. Maybe he had just misheard. Surely she hadn't turned him down that quickly. "Pardon?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't."

"You can't," he pressed, "or won't?"

She paused before answering. "I was trying to be polite."

"I see," he said, though he didn't really. "Well. I apologise for taking up your time." Without waiting to hear her say goodbye, he disconnected, his mind in a whirl. Refused without a moment's consideration? Infuriating. He tossed his mobile aside, feeling pent-up frustration. For what reason had she cast him off so quickly? He had adequately apologised for the Sam mix-up, been friendly during supper and throughout their interactions at Magda and Jeremy's the night before.

What had he failed to do right?

"Never mind," he said quietly to himself. Clearly destiny intended him to be doomed with the likes of Natasha Glenville.

To try to take his mind off of this failure he tidied up after his lunch-making mess, putting away the bread, meat and mustard and tossing the dirty knife and plate into the dishwasher. Unfortunately, it didn't work. Had it been arrogant to assume she'd accept? He didn't think so. His experience told him otherwise. Perhaps, given their previous encounters, he should have lent more weight to the idea that she might say no.

He had to stop obsessing on it.

As he made this resolution, the mobile rang from its askew position on the counter. He went over to it, quickly saw that it was Sam ringing back.

"Mark Darcy," he said in greeting.

"Hi. It's Sam."

"Hello Sam," he said. His voice was gruff, too gruff for Sam, but he wasn't feeling very charitable.

"Just had a call from my mum." He paused. "Sorry."

"It's not your fault," Mark said; in all honesty, Sam didn't sound all that sorry. "And, well, you did warn me."

"She gave me an earful for giving out her number, if it makes you feel any better."

Mark couldn't help laughing a short, sharp laugh. "That does not surprise me." Mark considered for a moment. "Sam, may I ask you a question, one that I want you to answer candidly?"

"What?" asked Sam, clearly intrigued.

"Are you truly sorry she turned me down?"

Sam said nothing for many moments.

"Ah," Mark said. "As I suspected."

"She's had boyfriends before," Sam said, rising to his own defence. "She's still, you know, pretty young."

"So why am I so different?"

"Because—" Sam stopped; it was tacit admission that Mark was on to something, and Sam seemed to acknowledge it in his tone when he continued. "You're not a fuckwit."

He did not understand at first what Sam meant, then it came to him: fuckwits—if he understood the context correctly, i.e. Daniel Cleaver—did not stick around. As a result, Sam still had his mother's attention even if he said he wanted her to be happy, even if he never would have admitted aloud he still needed it; why else would he have been so embarrassed to admit his mother had spontaneously bought him a present?

QED: he was worried she might find someone who might just stick around.

"Did you feel the same way about your father finding Phoebe?" Mark asked.

"But that's different. That's Dad," said Sam. Mark understood; he loved both of his own parents, but had always felt a particular bond with his mother. He heard Sam sigh, the sound of his breath amplified in the phone's mike. "I don't know. I guess I should be sorry, and I guess deep down I am—Mum doesn't deserve to be alone the rest of her life." He paused. "Maybe you should ask again."

Mark chuckled low again. "I'm not in the habit of inviting a second kick when I'm already down."

He chuckled. "I could put in a good word for you," said Sam.

"I think you're already in the doghouse with your mother," said Mark. "I don't think you want to add to your misery by recommending me."

At this Sam laughed. "Sorry," he said. "I mean, about not seeming more sorry before."

"It's all right," said Mark. "Say hello to your father for me. He seems a nice chap."

"I think he is," said Sam, "but then again, I'm a bit biased."

Once again he said his goodbyes with Sam and disconnected. He sighed, decided to try to get a little paperwork done in his home office, but barely two hours' effort in this endeavour proved futile. He realised he had to get out, had to do something physical. He would go for a jog. The day was not so hot that a jog out of doors was unthinkable.

He left the office, put on track bottoms and a tee shirt, then left the house.

Mark took his usual route; one he realised far too late would take him into Bridget's neighbourhood. It seemed his subconscious been having a bit of fun with him. It didn't matter. It was late afternoon and she was likely at work, anyhow.

Near the end of the circuit he rounded the corner down her street. To his surprise he saw none other than Bridget emerging from a taxi with a rather large box—long, thin, awkward in its obvious heaviness—that she was having trouble managing.

She leaned in to pay the taxi, stood as it drove away, and saw him crossing the street.

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me," she said as he drew near.

"I promise this is completely a coincidence," Mark said as he caught his breath. "This is my usual route. Do you need a hand upstairs?"

"No," she said quickly.

"What have you got there?" he asked, then saw the label on the box where it rested on edge on the ground. "Ah. Bookcase."

"Yes."

"You're sure I can't help?"

"Positive." She leaned to pick up the box, but couldn't do it. She crouched to try to get a shoulder under it, but again was unsuccessful. She looked up at him; he was fighting a laugh. She narrowed her eyes.

"Sorry," he said. "Please let me help you with that."

She rose to her full height, and with as much dignity as she could muster, she said, "Thank you."

He crouched, put his arms around it and hoisted it up. He turned to her; the apparent ease with which he'd done that seemed to silence her for a moment. "There we are," he said. "Please, lead on."

"Right."

She dug out her keys, walked to the building door, unlocked it then opened it for him. It took a little creative manoeuvring but he not only got it into the building, but up the staircase, through the flat's door and up the steps into the flat proper. He set its end by his feet. _Well, Darcy, you wanted a bit of a workout…_ he thought, taking in a breath. "Where would you like this?"

It was not a large flat; from his position he could see the sitting room and the kitchen, and a hallway which in all likelihood led to the loo and the bedrooms. It was, however, very cosily decorated—inviting, comfortable-looking furniture in sensuous curves and warm tones. Photos of Sam, with and without his parents, as well as people Mark presumed to be her friends, hung on every wall. He also doubted he'd ever seen a flat with more books in it. Every level surface had at least one, usually three, resting on it, and that was aside from the many shelves of them. It was an easy place in which to feel at home.

"If you can bring it over by the table, I think it'll go right there."

"It'll be easiest to assemble on the floor there." He picked it up again, then brought it and leaned it against the table, which had a few stacks of books on it, as well. "There you are."

He realised when he turned back to her that she was regarding him in a most peculiar fashion. Seeming to snap out of a reverie, she said, "Thanks. You must be—I mean, do you want something to drink after that?"

"Some water would be great. Thank you."

She went towards the kitchen and into the cupboard for a glass, then fetched some ice from the freezer and filled the glass with cold water. She handed it to him. "Sorry about that before."

"Sorry? What for?" he asked, then took a long drink from the glass.

She didn't speak until he'd finished taking his drink. "Sort of staring," she said. "I just don't think I've ever seen you when you weren't meticulously dressed and every hair in place on your head."

He smiled. "Well, yes. I was jogging."

She chuckled. "If anyone could manage meticulous jogging, I'd've thought you could have done."

"I'm not perfect, by any means."

She seemed a bit perplexed by his words, then smirked. "I never said I thought you were," she said.

He couldn't tell the extent to which she might be kidding. To distract his attention, he glanced to the bookcase in a box, thought about her trying to wrangle the pieces to put it together. "Can I be of further assistance?"

"I think I'll be okay. I do appreciate it though."

"I'll at least get the box opened for you." He placed it on the broad end, flat on the floor, then pulled the edges up to reveal the unassembled bookcase.

"Oh."

He looked up to her. "What is it?"

"There are a lot more bits there than I was expecting." He handed her the instruction sheet. "And a lot more steps," she added in lament.

"I'll stay and help," he declared.

"Are you good at putting things together?" she asked, her voice sceptical.

"I've done it before," he lied; how difficult could it be to follow written and illustrated instructions?

She smiled. "Then yes. Thank you."

He took the instruction sheet back and quickly realised that the instructions seemed to assume some kind of arcane knowledge he did not possess; it was possible the odd wording was just the results of a translation from another language. Still, the drawings appeared fairly straightforward. "We'll need a little hammer and a screwdriver."

"It said no-tool assembly."

"These," he said, crouching to pick up a small bag, "are screws."

"Bloody hell. Hold on."

She went into the back of the flat, then came out a few minutes later with a little toolkit. He chuckled as he opened it. All components, including a hammer and several screwdrivers, had a floral pattern on their handles. "These will do."

"What's wrong with these?"

"They're—" he began; he did not want to insult her tools when she seemed to be warming a bit. "There's nothing at all wrong. They're very cheery."

"They're girly, I know."

"A bit," he admitted. "But they suit you."

She smiled. "All right, what's first?"

He took his duties seriously as the director of this project, and when both instructions and illustrations were vague, he chose to be decisive and just do what made sense.

"First is the frame," he said, then asked her to pull over the two longest planks and the short ones that were the top and bottom, as the diagram called for. "Hold this upright while I drop in a bit of glue, then put the screw in."

She did as asked. "I suppose they call it 'no-tool' because we're not actually, you know, sanding the wood and drilling the screw holes."

"Probably." He twisted the screwdriver, one than the other. "All right, same thing, other end."

Once that was done, they flipped it over and stood it up like a little table so that the other, fourth side could be screwed into place.

"You're winging it, aren't you?" she asked, dropping the glue into the hole.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, then smiled and drove in the screw.

Next the shelves went in—more glue, more screws—before the book case was laid onto its front and the back panel got affixed.

"I suppose this is where the hammer and these million little nails come in handy." She picked up the bag of nails and shook it; they made an almost pretty, shimmery metallic sound.

"Yep." He aligned the panel along the top edge, but he realised it was a bit off from square. "Hm. Give me the hammer."

"I want to do the back."

"You can do the back," he said. "I have to give it a whack. It's a bit off."

"That'd fit in around here."

He laughed, then struck the corner until it squared. "You really don't want a parallelogram bookcase."

"You'd be surprised at what I've used in the past to store my books," she said.

He held the bag of tiny framing nails and handed her one at a time to let her pound them in. "Not too close together," he advised. "You'll run out."

"There's so many of them though."

"There's not as many as it looks."

As she got part way down the third side, she started to see what he meant; the nails went in farther and farther apart. The fourth side, the bottom, ended up having no nails in it at all.

"It'll be okay," Mark assured. "The back's not really structural."

She looked sheepish. "Do you think?"

He nodded. "Absolutely."

She smiled, spirits restored.

"All right," said Mark. "Where's this going exactly?"

She pointed to a blank space by the window.

"So we can stand this upright and sort of… walk it over."

"What about the glue? Shouldn't it dry first?"

"It'll be okay—but it says not to put books on it just yet. Give it a day."

The corner of her mouth turned up. "You might have noticed we're big fans of reading here."

"Are you? Couldn't tell." He grinned too.

Slowly they lifted the bookcase upright. It was as tall as she was, and nearly as wide as her arm span. The very thought of her attempting to move this thing into place without assistance made him chuckle.

"Are you laughing," she said as they pushed it against the wall, "because you're thinking what this might have gone like if I'd done it on my own?"

"Can't lie," he said. "I am."

"It would have been a nightmare," she said. "I really wanted to be stubborn and go it alone, but I—I'm glad you helped."

Her own hair was a bit mussed from the work, but she looked really bright-eyed and happy. Even though she was dressed in everyday denims and a cotton top, once again he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. "I was glad to do it," he said, and as he did he noticed the timbre of his voice had changed. "You know, Bridget, I hope you'll reconsider coming out to dinner with me."

She blinked in confusion. "But you don't even like me," she blurted, then flushed red. "I mean… I just thought you were being pressured by Magda and Jeremy to ask me. And your mum. And mine."

"Don't know if you've noticed," he said gently, "but I don't often do what I don't want to do."

She raised her chin slightly, then smiled. "Except maybe Natasha."

At this he felt his skin tint flush with heat, but couldn't help laughing; he didn't even care it was at his own expense, because she was laughing too, and it was a pleasure to hear.

"If I agree," she said cautiously, "that woman's not going to come scratch my eyes out, is she?"

"She's already been set straight," he said. His smile faded and he became more serious. "I'm sorry if I ever made you think I didn't like you, Bridget. I do."

She reacted as if he'd struck a chord, but bristled a bit as she spoke. "You didn't always."

"Actually… I did," he said. "Even if I didn't want to admit it."

She regarded him with an unblinking gaze. "All right, Mark Darcy. I'll have dinner with you."

He smiled broadly.

She continued: "But you're not going to take me out."

"Pardon?"

"I want to thank you for helping me," she said. "I'll make you dinner."

His brows rose. "You will?" he asked; he could not keep the incredulity from his voice.

"I've managed not to kill my son all these years," she said teasingly.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I mean, I'd be pleased to treat you to a night out."

"Take it or leave it." She was smiling again.

"But I'm…" He looked down to himself; the sweat from his run was now paired with sawdust from the bookshelf components clinging to his clothing. "I'm a wreck."

"And I'm not?" She chuckled.

"You're not, at least not to this extent."

"It's really not going to take much time to make pasta and sauce—oh, that's okay, I hope?"

"Pasta's fine."

"Whew," she said. "Anyway, you can wash up a bit in the loo—though hold on, let me make sure I didn't leave it a disaster. Be right back." She went back towards the room in question, and after a few minutes (during which he heard her closing doors; bedrooms, he would guess) she returned. "There, all clear. Avail yourself of the facilities."

He smiled warmly to her. "Thank you."

He strode back, went into the loo and closed the door behind himself. She had set a clean towel out for him; the act of her doing this made him smile. He took off his trackie bottoms in order to shake them out and, he hoped, freshen them up a little. He tried to aim the sawdust-like debris for the trash bin but wasn't sure how successful he'd been. He also took off the shirt and shook it out. After resting them on the edge of the bathtub, he turned on the sink taps, lathered up the bar of soap and washed his face thoroughly, cringing a little at the stubble that had developed over the course of the day, cursing himself for his inattentive shaving earlier that morning (he told himself he had been distracted). As he dried off, he inspected himself in the mirror, combed his untamed hair down with dampened fingers then cringed again.

He was not exactly looking the best he would have wanted for a date with her.

He left the towel hanging over a rack to dry, dressed again in his shirt and bottoms, then ventured back out. Already he could smell the scent of tomato, garlic and basil hanging lazily in the air, saw the steam of the boiling water licking up towards the ceiling, and there she stood, one hand on her hip as she stirred the sauce in the saucepan.

"I poured you some wine," she said without turning. "White." He glanced to the side, saw two glasses had been poured and were now sitting on the kitchen counter.

"That's a bit preternatural of you."

"What is?" she asked, looking over her shoulder then turning to face him.

"Knowing I was there."

She smiled. "Years of practise." She turned back to the hob, then reached for the pasta itself and dropped it in the water. She turned down the heat on the sauce, then covered it with a lid. "Six minutes until supper."

"Shall I—oh." He was about to offer to set the table, but she had already brought plates and forks to a cleared portion of the table.

"Pardon the books," she said. "They're destined for the bookcase."

"I gathered that." He walked over for the wine, had a sip. He knew he should have had more water after all of that exertion but the wine was very good. "It smells delicious," he said. "I hadn't realised quite how hungry I was."

"I'm not the greatest cook, but you know… had to hone some skills for Sam's sake. Can't feed a kid fish fingers and alphabetti spaghetti every night, much as he might want them."

Mark chuckled. "Is there anything more I can do?" he asked.

"Nope," she said. "Just feel free to sit down. Just a few minutes to go."

He took a seat, had another sip of wine, just as she brought the sauce pan over to the table, set it down on a potholder and set a ladle beside it. "Right back," she said.

After one more round in which she brought a small bowl of grated parmesan and a serving spoon, she returned to stir up the pasta, then switch off the hob, drain it in a colander, rinse it and dump it into a bowl; the action was so smooth and practised he thought she must have done it a hundred, a thousand times before. She then brought it over to the table. He forced his gaze from her and to the food as she set the pasta bowl down, then rose to his feet. "Allow me." He held out his hand for the pasta server. "The least I can do is parcel out pasta."

She smiled almost bashfully. "Thank you."

He divided the pasta into roughly equal portions, then used the ladle to spoon out sauce, first on hers, then on his own. As he did, he reflected that he could not recall a single instance, not even when he was married, when a partner cooked a meal for him. It made him wistful, and underscored to him how the simplest, most mundane moments could be so special.

"Care for some cheese?" she asked.

"Thank you, yes," he said, reaching for the parmesan, sifting some over his plate of fusilli.

After this exchange, she began to laugh under her breath. "Sorry," she said. "It just seemed too formal and proper there for a moment."

"That's the last thing I want," he said with a grin, then handed her the bowl of cheese.

As she sprinkled a bit over her own mound of pasta, he was surprised to see her blue eyes raise to meet his. "You know," she said, "this is a bit odd for me. I'm not used to serving supper to someone who isn't my son or my ex-husband."

He smiled warmly, scooping up some of his pasta. "I never would have guessed," he said, hoping that perhaps this was in its way just as special for her as it was for him, despite how commonplace a nightly supper could be. "So, as I recall, you work in publishing."

She dropped her gaze. "Actually, I don't. Not anymore."

"Oh," he said. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," she said. "I made the foolish mistake of trying to have a relationship with a man who is a complete commitment-phobe. And… he also happened to be my boss."

"Daniel Cleaver," he said.

"Yes," she said. She looked to him again. "I suppose you tried to warn me at the Alconburys' party, when I thought you were just being a prat." He chuckled, recalling her indignant look paired with that sexy outfit. "How do you know him, anyway?"

The night was going so well that he did not wish to get into the details with her just then, so he only offered, "We were mates in university—then we had a major falling out when he proved to not be the friend I thought he was."

"Crikey," she said. "I'm sorry."

He let out a breath. "'Fool me once, shame on me' as they say," he said. "I couldn't trust him again."

She offered a smile. "It's funny—I felt much the same way. But on the bright side, I have a much better job now. I'm working in television."

"Oh, you're on a programme?"

She laughed. "Oh, lord no. I'm a researcher."

"Don't sell yourself short. I'm sure you'd be great on the air."

"I'd fall on my arse," she said, then turned pink. "Sorry."

"You don't need to apologise to me," he said. "I feel much the same way, some days, about appearing in court." At this she laughed aloud. "So, researcher for which programme?"

"Sit Up Britain."

"I think I may have seen it," he said, though wasn't honestly sure he had.

"It's ridiculous, to be honest; a mix of entertainment and current affairs," she said. "My boss is a bit of a cretin, but he's harmless." She laughed. "And I have no interest in _him_ at all." As she said this, she seemed to regret it. "Ah, you're out of wine. Let me get the bottle."

She rose before he had a chance to offer to get it himself. She returned promptly and poured more for him, topping up her own in the process.

"I don't mean to flog the proverbial dead horse," he said, "but I wanted to apologise again (without threat of your immediate departure) for any misapprehensions I may have had about you, or any I led you to have about me, about Sam."

She smiled, then began to laugh. "Yes, you are in fact a barrister," she said, sipping at her wine again. "I think you can consider yourself adequately forgiven for thinking I was a cradle robber. You looked positively white when you realised your mistake."

"I admit the notion perplexed me," he said. "I mean, here you are—" He stopped, cursing his loosened tongue before actually saying "a beautiful woman"; he did not want to come on too strongly, ply her with compliments (heartfelt as they were) when he'd only just gotten her to accept a dinner date, such as it was.

"Here I am what?" she asked with a smirk.

He glanced down. "Suffice it to say, I might have been a bit… jealous," he confessed.

"Jealous?"

He dared to look up again. "I thought it unjust that a mere boy could succeed where I did not have a chance."

At this she seemed a bit stunned. "I see," she said; she looked to the table, to nothing in particular, focusing as she turned thoughts around in her mind. "But—that means you've liked me all this time, then. I mean, longer than just a few weeks."

"Longer than just a few weeks," he repeated. "Yes."

He watched an expression of amusement play upon her lips. "Even though you didn't want to admit it."

"As I've said."

"That's not exactly flattering, you know," she said, teasing him.

"It's not meant to insult you at all," he said. "That's the last thing I ever intended to do." He picked up his wine, took in a long draw, then stared at how the light refracted through the round stem before continuing. "I had this fairly precise notion for the whole of my adult life, the sort of woman I should find attractive, fall in love with and marry—and even though it's not worked out for me it was very difficult to let it go because otherwise… I'd just be flailing wildly."

"We all do to an extent, I think," she said.

"But I don't _do_ 'flailing wildly' in any other aspect of my life," he said. "For this—for you—it was worth giving it a shot."

There was a long silence following this admission; she seemed fascinated (in much the same way he had been) with the stem of her wineglass.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to… I don't know. Overwhelm you."

She shook her head. "Please don't apologise," she said quietly, then raised her eyes to meet his. "I guess this means I'm forgiven for assuming you didn't like me for having a child as a child."

"There was nothing to forgive," he said. "I was a prat."

She smiled. "And you… well, Sam doesn't scare you off?"

"He's the icing on the cake."

"You like him," she restated.

"I think I've made that very clear."

"You can see that's pretty important to me," she said. "Daniel, well…"

"Yes, _Daniel_," Mark said dismissively. "Consider the source."

This made her smile then laugh again. "Okay," she said. "You've convinced me."

"Of what?"

"To go out to a proper dinner with you."

"Bridget," he said. "This _is_ a proper dinner."

"You know what I mean," she said.

He did, and it filled his heart with joy; she was telling him in so many words that she would see him again, that he was, quite possibly, worth giving a shot, too. He smiled, then nodded. "I'll hold you to that," he said.

"Oh, twist my arm, take me to a posh restaurant," she said with a laugh.

Quite without his realising it, Mark had finished his pasta and his second glass of wine. The sky was starting to darken ever so slightly, and with a jog home to go yet, he knew he had to go. He pushed back from the table. "I'm sorry to say this," he said, "but I'm afraid I must leave. I have an early appointment."

She nodded. "I'm working, too."

He stood just as she did. "Thank you again for dinner."

"It was nothing."

It wasn't nothing, not by any stretch. He smiled. "So, how about Friday night for dinner?"

She grinned. "Okay," she said. "Great."

"I'll come for you at seven."

"Perfect."

"Perfect," he repeated. "Well, goodnight."

"I'll walk you to the door."

He descended the few stairs to the flat door, then turned when he reached it; she was still a step up and it put them nearly eye to eye, or at least closer than usual.

"Goodnight," she said quietly, a smile playing on her lips.

He wasn't sure if he dared kiss her goodnight, then thought he might just brave it, given the wine in his system and how far bravery had gotten him that day already. He leaned forward, intending on wishing her another 'goodnight' before pecking her on the cheek, but the proximity of her blue gaze took the words from his mouth.

Instead, he placed his lips tenderly on her own, touching his fingers to her cheek and lingering perhaps a moment too long before pulling back with a smile. "Until Friday."

She nodded. "Okay," she said in a breathless voice. He didn't think it was his imagination; she looked about as dazzled as he felt by their brief contact.

Before he knew it he was on the street again. The suddenness of the cool evening air brought him back to reality, and as he jogged home at a much slower pace than usual given the drinks and the dinner, he found that that chill in the air helped calm him in more than one way.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Barrister's Apprentice**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 34,894 (six chapters and an epilogue); this chapter: 5,437  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p>Chapter 5.<p>

The week seemed to alternately drag and fly by, but Mark did his best not to be distracted by throwing himself into his case work. It kept him adequately busy—particularly with no one to do the tedious filing and transcriptions from paper to computer.

It surprised him Thursday night when his mobile rang and he saw the number on the display was Sam's. He answered it with his usual greeting, his name, which made Sam laugh.

"Why is that funny?"

"I would have thought you'd answer a personal call with 'Hello' like a normal person."

From the flippant tone Mark could tell Sam was in a good mood, so he could only smile in response. "Habit, I guess," said Mark. "So to what do I owe the pleasure of hearing your voice?"

Sam laughed. "My dad's apparently perplexed," he began, most intriguingly.

"What about?" Mark prompted.

"Well," he said; it was very clear Sam was grinning madly. "Apparently Mum rung him up to discuss you at great length."

Even though he was alone at home, Mark felt as if a thousand pairs of eyes were upon him, felt his skin wash over with the heat of his embarrassment. "She called him to talk about me?"

"That's what he told me, but don't tell her he told me and I told you," said Sam. "Don't worry, he gave you a glowing review from the party at Magda's."

"I'm…" _Mortified_, he thought, but said aloud, "…pleased to hear it."

Sam didn't say anything for a few seconds. "You know," he offered at last, "I'm glad you asked again."

The sincerity that imbued Sam's voice as he spoke was worlds apart from his half-hearted apology of earlier that week, and Mark smiled to hear it. "You have your mother's new bookcase to thank for that."

Another pause, then a laugh. "She promised me she was going to wait until I got back so I could help carry it."

"She obviously changed her mind."

"Stubborn," Sam chuckled.

_And thank goodness for it_, Mark thought.

…

Friday morning brought bright sunshine and a clear blue sky, which served to amplify his own cheer and anticipation for his date that night. This was apparently different enough from his usual demeanour to warrant comment, or the very least, suspicious looks.

In particular, although she still refused to speak to him unless absolutely necessary, he noticed Natasha's eyes were on him more often than not. His curiosity was satisfied when Jeremy came to speak to him in his office, closing the door behind himself.

"Question for you," Jeremy said, forgoing all preamble. "Why exactly are you looking like the cat who shagged the canary?"

At Jeremy's candour Mark couldn't hold in a sharp laugh. "Natasha's beside herself, isn't she?" Mark asked in return.

"It's rather funny, actually; she's trying to figure out exactly what's going on without asking you directly."

"I don't care if she knows," Mark said. "I have a date tonight, one which I am very much looking forward to."

"Date, eh?" asked Jeremy, waggling his brows. "Who is—my God, is it Bridget?"

Mark quirked a hint of a smile. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

"You finally wore her down, did you? She finally relented and agreed?"

Mark chuckled. "She was worried I had only asked because everyone else wanted me to ask. I managed to convince her that I asked because _I_ wanted to ask."

"Excellent work, mate," said Jeremy. "God, it would tear that woman up inside to know you passed her over for a divorced mother of a teenage boy."

"As I said: I don't care if she knows."

"Not that I would ever be so crass as to tell her outright," said Jeremy. "Not when subtlety is so much more fun."

Jeremy wouldn't know subtlety if it hit him over the head with a plank—_no pun intended_, Mark thought—but silently agreed.

"Good luck," said Jeremy. "And most of all, have fun."

The hours seemed to creep by more slowly as the day went on. His anticipation went from eager to anxious as he considered the myriad ways in which the night might go awry. _Stop it_, he told himself. _It is a single dinner; the fate of the western world does not depend on it._

_Ah_, the devil's advocate in him retorted. _The fate of the western world may not depend on it, but your own world might_.

…

Mark did not think that a quarter-hour until the appointed time was too soon to park his vehicle within walking distance of her building, especially after stopping for a small bunch of fragrant wildflowers. He didn't want to be too early, seem too obnoxiously enthusiastic, but it was in his nature to be prompt so he could hardly help himself.

The door to her building was curiously open—lax attention on the part of the last resident or visitor to leave, most likely—so he took the liberty of entering and heading up to her top-floor flat. He rapped on the door a few times, heard the sound of motion within, then silence. He furrowed his brow, then knocked again.

The door few open unexpectedly. Surprise then confusion registered on Bridget's face, and Mark was sure it registered on his own: she was dressed in yoga leggings and a big tee shirt; her hair was pulled sloppily up into a pony tail, and she had a cup of coffee in one hand and a twenty pound note in the other.

"Mark!" she said. "What are you doing here?"

In all of the worst-case scenarios he had conjured in his mind, this is not one he'd imagined. Had she forgotten she'd agreed? Had he somehow misinterpreted her response? "Dinner?" he asked.

She drew her brows together. "That's tomorrow."

He looked to his watch, which very plainly displayed the day. "We did agree to Friday, right?"

"Yes," she said. "Tomorrow."

He smiled, then chuckled. "No. Today."

"No," she said. "_No_."

"I'm afraid yes."

"Bugger," she muttered, hiding her face with her hand and flushing a deep shade of crimson. "I am beyond mortified." She looked up at him again. "I thought you were the delivery person."

That sounded to him like she'd had no intention of leaving the house for the night. "Oh," he said, crestfallen even to his own ears.

"Oh, no, come on up. If you give me a few minutes I can be presentable to go out."

He offered a smile, but asked, "What about your takeaway?"

"Late night snack. Doesn't matter. Come on in and—oh, we're not going to be late for some reservation or something, are we?"

"We shouldn't be. It's for eight."

"God," she said. She set down the coffee, then seemingly offered him the money. "Will you pay when they come? I'll just get, er, dressed."

He took the note from her. "Sure. And about these?" He indicated the flowers.

"Oh, yes—if you could just put them in a… I think there might be a vase in the pantry up in the corner. Do you mind? I am so sorry."

"Really, I don't mind."

He did in fact find a small blue glass vase right where she described, and was dropping the blooms into the water when the entryphone rang. He strode across the flat and swept up the receiver into his hand; it was the expected delivery of the takeaway. He pressed the button to grant access.

Once that was complete he stowed the carrier bag into the refrigerator, then returned to the flowers to ensure they looked nice for her when she came out of her room. He reasoned that only ten or so minutes had passed, and had just looked to his watch to confirm (to find it was more like fifteen) when movement in his peripheral vision caused him to turn.

For such a short time to pass, the transformation that had occurred bordered on miraculous. Her hair was down and brushed, falling in waves to her shoulders; she had put on a dusting of makeup, swept some shadow on her lids and some colour onto her cheeks; she had dressed in a pale blue top with a low V-neck and a sapphire skirt that just went to her knees; her shoes were playful, open-toed shoes of modest height.

"Will this do?" she asked; she was undoubtedly referring to fitting in to wherever it was he'd intended on taking her, but all he could think was—

"It will more than do," he said before he could stop himself. He offered a grin. "We should be off."

"Yes." She looked to the flowers. "They're beautiful, by the way. Thank you. Do I have time for a sniff?"

He chuckled. "Yes, of course."

She walked past him, and as she did the perfume she wore—a light, sweet scent that reminded him of spiced orange—filled his nose most tantalisingly. She lowered herself to put her nose into the blooms, closed her eyes, and inhaled. "Mmm, very nice," she said, standing to her full height again.

He could not help but agree.

She grabbed a cardigan in case the air turned cool as the night went on, and with that they were off, arriving to their destination with little delay or trouble.

"Le Pont de la Tour?" she asked in a slightly awed voice as they strolled together towards the door.

"Yes," he said.

"When you say 'posh', you mean it," she said. "I feel like I ought to go in on your elbow."

"I would not object," he said. "And technically, you're the one who said 'posh'."

With a little giggle she threaded her arm through his and they entered the restaurant together. It was to be a few short minutes' wait, so they were asked whether they would like a cocktail over which they could consider the menu once they were seated.

"Oh, yes," said Bridget. "A Cosmopolitan, please."

"And for you, sir?"

Mark was not one for cocktails, usually; he much preferred something dry to sweet. "How about a Manhattan?" he decided after a moment's consideration.

"Very well."

As promised, the table was ready very shortly afterwards, and when they were brought to it the drinks awaited them. He was pretty certain he knew what he wanted already—the rabbit and foie gras terrine for a starter, and the roast Yorkshire pheasant for his main course—but Bridget seemed perplexed.

"What are you in the mood for?" he asked, as she sipped her drink.

"Haven't the faintest, after having my mouth all set on—oh, bugger. I never put the takeaway in the fridge."

"I did. Don't worry."

"Great. Thank you again." She looked again to the menu. "I'll go with the salad, then."

She was referring to a starter, a salad of poached lobster, apple and cucumber. "Excellent choice… and for the main course?"

"Um…" She stared. "What are you having?"

"The roast pheasant."

"And that's good, is it?"

He nodded.

"That's what I'll have too." With a satisfied smile she set the menu down, and picked the drink up for another long draw. "Top drink, this is," she said. "How's yours?"

"Very good," he said.

The server came just then to take their orders (with accompanying wine), and after he left, she picked up the thread of their conversation:

"What's in it?"

"Whiskey, sweet vermouth and bitters," he said, sipping. "Maraschino and orange."

"Oh, that sounds good," she said. "Well, except for the whiskey. And the bitters."

He chuckled. "I'm not sure even _sweet_ vermouth is your thing."

She held out her hand. He blinked in confusion. "I'd like to try."

For a moment he thought she was kidding. "Try?"

"The drink," she said. "My knowledge of cocktails is not exactly encyclopaedic, and I'm always looking to expand."

"All right." He handed her his cocktail, and hesitantly she brought it to her lips. As she took in a taste her features immediately screwed up and she pulled the glass away. He couldn't help a light laugh as she hurried to sip on her own drink again.

As she returned her glass to the table, she said, "Well, there's an experience I never want to repeat."

He smiled. "So why the need to expand your cocktail encyclopaedia?"

She shrugged a little. "Most girls, I guess, have a few years in their early twenties where they get to go to clubs and have drinks bought for them left and right… with Sam I didn't really have the chance to do that, and I always felt a bit shorted as a result."

Mark wasn't sure what to say, so he offered a non-committal, "Sorry."

"Oh, don't be," she said, making a sound of faint amusement. "A few years after Peter and I divorced, I met some girlfriends through work and got to do the things I never did in uni, a fair share of clubbing and dancing, and… well. The gleam wore off of that quite quickly." She offered a bright smile. "Anyway, it left a gaping hole in my education which I am slowly filling, and now, at long last, I've experienced a Manhattan."

Mark did not know what touched him more: her open and honest candour or the evident fact that she felt so comfortable talking to him now. He allowed a slow, appreciative smile to spread over his face.

"Of course, it's just a silly on-going thing," she said with a slightly defensive tone to her voice. "It isn't the driving force of my being."

"There isn't anything at all wrong with it," he said. "In fact, you should consider doing a spot about it on your programme."

"Really? You're not taking the piss?"

"I'm not," he said. "Why would you think that?"

"Sometimes I can't tell when people are humouring me because I've let something stupid fall out of my mouth." She grinned abashedly. "Like now. So a segment all about mixed drinks. Hmm."

"It could work."

"As long as they don't get pissed on camera, I suppose…"

"You would definitely have to campaign to do it yourself."

She laughed. "I'll bring it up at the Monday meeting. Maybe I can even get you a consultation credit."

"That's quite all right," he said with another chuckle.

The starters arrived then. As always the rabbit/foie gras starter was very good, and Bridget seemed more intrigued than anything by her salad. "It's good," she said at what must have seemed a doubtful look on his part. "I wasn't sure how these would all work together, but it's very good."

"Pleasantly surprised?"

"Yes, very much." As she brought up another forkful, her lips formed a smile around the tines; he wondered if she wasn't feeling the same way about him. He hoped so.

They continued to eat at their starters, finishing the cocktails, and generally engaging in pleasant small talk: the weather, how work had been, looking forward to the Bank Holiday that upcoming weekend, how odd it always was when Sam travelled to his father's place and how quiet it always seemed to be alone—

"Not that I can't appreciate the peace and quiet," she said. "I feel a little like a bachelorette." Her features took on a pensive quality. "It's going to be odd when Sam goes off to uni when the time comes."

"Oh, surely Sam won't be too far from you."

"I rather hope not," she said, "though he wants his independence. I remember all too well what that was like."

He was reminded again that Sam was the same age she'd been when she'd given birth to him. "By the same token, a young man needs his mother more than he probably wants to admit."

She picked up her glass of wine for a sip; as she did he realised the main course had been served and that he had, quite without his awareness of doing so, consumed a good portion of both his meal and his wine.

"I'm sure you're right," she said. "And I do hope he can get on with Cambridge." She smiled tenderly to him again, held the edge of her glass against to her bottom lip before asking tentatively, "Were you married long? I feel you know so much about Sam, Peter and me, and I hardly know a thing about you."

Mark was conflicted. He hated discussing that dark time of his life when he had married for all the wrong reasons, but she certainly deserved to know as much about his past as he had learned about her own. "It's possibly one of the shortest marriages on record," he admitted. "You and I both know the man with whom she was unfaithful."

"_I_ know him too?" she asked. "Who, Jeremy?"

He laughed lightly. "No, not Jeremy. You used to date him," he said gently.

It took her a moment, but then she very obviously got it; her hand came up to cover her slackened mouth. "_No_."

He nodded.

"Oh, God. That's why you tried to warn me."

He knew she meant the Alconburys' again. "Yes. I wish now I had been less subtle." He smiled. "Wish now I had tackled him to the ground at the _Kafka's Motorbike_ do."

At this she chuckled and looked down in an almost demure manner.

Mark went on. "I don't fool myself into thinking there was much of a chance of that marriage lasting anyway, so… I suppose in the end, it was for the best."

She leaned forward and placed her hand over his, squeezing ever so slightly in a reassuring way. "I'm sure it was."

He tried not to read every little gesture, every word as more than friendly consolation, but he met her gaze and found it nearly impossible to break away. If all of that served only to bring him to someone like her, it seemed but a small price to pay.

It was Bridget who looked away first, drew back her hand, but not out of any sort of recoil or awkwardness; she picked up her wineglass and held it slightly aloft. "This seems awfully strange of me to do, but I'd like to toast to Daniel," she said. "He may have churned us out and left us in his wake, but that allowed us to sort of… come together." He saw her skin stain with her embarrassment. "Not that we're—you know."

He lifted his glass and touched it to hers. "To Daniel, then, for whatever part he may have played in bringing us to this moment."

He then drank from his glass, his eyes never leaving her; it may have been his imagination, but her expression was much softened from when they had first met.

After finishing the meal he asked about dessert.

"I'm not sure how I could possibly eat anything else."

He remembered her dessert preference at that lunch with Sam, and was not above using that knowledge for his own gain: "Not even chocolate cake, chocolate ganache, with crﾏme anglaise…?"

She seemed thoughtful for a moment. "Perhaps I could find the room."

He opted, as he did whenever he had dessert, for the liqueur-soaked cherry, pistachio and almond crﾏme brﾞlée, and ordered an espresso for each of them.

"This feels so decadent," she said as the dessert plate was placed before her.

He thought about all of the nights he'd eaten here alone, thought he would have much preferred each of those evenings in her company instead, anywhere else. "It's truly been a pleasure," he said.

She smiled again; eliciting those from her seemed to come more easily than before. "For me, too."

They lingered over the last of the espresso before he settled the bill, then the two of them left the restaurant. Before crossing the threshold, she playfully took hold of his elbow as she had upon entering the restaurant, and held on to it for the entire walk back to his car.

The drive back to the flat was, for him, spent in comfortable silence; he hoped she felt the same. Given how it had started, it had been a near-perfect night. His only regret, he realised, is in that opting for dessert and espresso at the restaurant, he had little excuse to accompany her upstairs to spend a little time in private with her… and that was something he realised he wanted very much.

He stopped the car on the kerb before her building, then turned to look at her just as she muttered, "Bugger."

"What is it?" he asked.

With heavy overtones of lament in her voice, she said, "We shouldn't have had dessert." His thoughts went first to her perhaps feeling ill, but immediately she continued, "Now there's no decent excuse to ask you up for a spot of coffee."

Given his thoughts of mere moments earlier, he laughed out loud, louder and a bit longer than the comment strictly warranted on its own. She looked at him as if he were mad. "I apologise," he said. "I was… well, you read my mind."

At this she smiled too, pearly teeth on display. "Well. Would you like some coffee anyway?"

"I'd love some."

He disengaged the engine and followed her up to her flat. "I always tell myself when Sam's up north that I'll buckle down and tidy the place up to military standards," she began as they ascended. "Who am I kidding, though? It never happens."

"Even a mostly grown son must be tiring to parent," he said. "I'm sure no one holds it against you."

She turned the key in her flat door, then turned to him. "Right now I only care if you would."

He grinned. "It doesn't bother me in the least."

"Good."

Heading up into the flat, Mark was struck by the scent of the flowers he'd brought earlier. He heard her take in a deep breath then sigh. "They smell so nice," she said in explanation.

"Glad you like them." He followed her to the kitchen.

"I do—oh, damn." She sounded crestfallen and turned to him with a woeful expression. "I've just remembered what I was going to do after I ate my takeaway. Pop down to the market for more coffee."

"It's all right," he said. "I really shouldn't have any more coffee tonight anyway. Perhaps some drinking chocolate?"

"It's August."

He laughed. "Hot coffee is okay but hot chocolate is not?"

"Hot chocolate is for cold nights by the fireplace," she said.

As she said it, an image appeared unbidden in his head, more like a flash-forward than a product of his wildest imaginings: dark flat save for the hearth, snow on the windowsill, two cups of chocolate, a large, warm blanket, and on her sofa, Bridget curled up to him with her legs across his lap—

"I mean," she went on at his silence, "if you really want some I could put the kettle on, but I think you're mad if you do."

"Kettle?" he asked. "_You're_ mad if you don't use milk."

It was her turn to laugh this time. "How about iced tea? I'm not sure I have any drinking chocolate, anyway."

"That sounds delicious."

"It's green."

"Okay."

"Jasmine," she clarified. "Hope that's okay."

"It's fine," he stressed.

"Great. Go on, have a seat."

He went into the sitting room, which to him felt a bit stuffy. He called over his shoulder to her, "Is it all right if I open the window in here?"

"Sure," she said. "Could use a bit of a breeze after being shut up all night."

He slipped out of his suit jacket, then went around and hoisted the window up; as he did, a burst of fresh, cool air came flowing in. "I can feel that from here," she called.

He tugged at his tie to loosen it a bit, then turned to see her approaching with two generous glasses of pale green tea. "Wasn't sure if you wanted any sugar—you know, since you didn't in your espresso."

"Without is perfect," he said, impressed and pleasantly surprised that she had noticed.

She reached out towards him with the glass in her left hand, but hesitated at the last minute. "I can't remember now for sure which is the sweetened one."

"I'll let you know straight away," he said, then accepted the glass and took a sip. "Ah. Unsweetened. Good guess."

She indicated with her now-free hand that he should sit upon the sofa, and as he did she sat too. As she sipped, she smiled. He felt suddenly at a loss for words.

He should have known not to worry.

"So I heard you told Peter about the paddling pool incident." She said this with great gravity in her voice, but the quirk of the corner of her mouth gave her away. "I can guarantee you that he is imparting this information to Sam, possibly already has."

He felt the skin around his collar grow warm with his embarrassment. "It was in the context of our acquaintance," he explained.

"It's all right, you know," she said. "My mother did not fail to mention it for months in advance of the New Year. When I finally stood up to her and demanded proof of this alleged incident or to stop speaking of it… she produced a film reel."

For a split second he did not know what to say, then found himself laughing out loud. "I don't know your mother well," he managed, "but I know enough to believe she would do this."

"Then she made me watch it, then had it converted to a video file to email it to me. My humiliation deepened exponentially."

"And you didn't immediately show it to Sam."

She made a face, then laughed too. "I do not need to deepen my humiliation _that_ much."

"Oh, come now," he said. "Your son loves and respects you. Seeing film footage of you as a child… I think he'd find it very charming." He paused. "I mean, I would."

She smiled in a manner that convinced him she thought he was teasing.

"Let's see it, then," he said.

"What? You're mad."

"I am not," he said. With a bit more authority, he said, "Show it to me." At her slightly stunned expression, he added, "Please."

"Okay, if you're that mental about it," she said. "I'll get the laptop. Give me a moment."

She set the glass down on the coffee table, then got to her feet and went to the back of the flat. She returned momentarily with the notebook computer, set it down then opened it up, clicking away on the track pad until she came to the video file.

"You have to promise me not to laugh."

"If I do it will not be at you, but in charmed amusement," he said, setting his own glass down in preparation for attentive viewing.

"Okay then."

She double-clicked on the file and it launched; the first image was of a little blonde hellion running around like her dress was on fire. He didn't laugh but he did smile; the memory of the event flickered in his mind. He shifted closer to her so that he might have a better view since the viewing window was small.

"Oh, I can make it bigger."

She leaned forward to make it full screen, then leaned back… and directly into him.

"Sorry," she said, shifting as if to pull away; in doing so she actually turned into him. In that moment of time, that split second in which she raised her chin and looked up into his eyes, he realised he wanted—needed—to kiss her again.

Despite the sound of the music that accompanied the video of her as a child, he felt frozen in time. He looked down upon her and saw an undeniable warmth and, yes, even desire in her eyes. Her lips parted slightly. He lowered himself to place his lips upon hers for a kiss; in response she took in a quick breath and kissed him back as he raised a hand to cup her cheek.

His fingers traced down over her skin, to her neck then shoulder to pull her closer to him; the kisses were still sweet rather than deep and he was willing to accept that right now, because the last thing he wanted was for things to move too quickly with her, not with Sam to consider.

It was Bridget, however, who made the first bold move; as she raked her fingers over his hair, her tongue brushed feather-light against his lips. In response he covered her mouth with his, cradled her head at the base of her neck with his hand and held her to him. How wonderful she felt against him; how completely naturally they moved together as they kissed; how seamlessly each kiss seemed to cascade into countless more; how he wished it would never end.

The music from the home-movie file had stopped—for how long he did not know—which made him realise it must. Gently he wound down the kiss, then pulled away from her. His heart lurched to look at her: her eyes were wide and shining, her cheeks rosy and flushed, her lips curled and querulous.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"No," he said quietly, lifting his hand to brush her straying fringe away from her eyes.

"Then why did you stop?"

Stopping had been the last thing he wanted to do, but the only thing he _could_ do. He chose his words carefully. "It was our first date," he said tenderly, "and there's a certain propriety to observe."

At this she blinked rapidly, then smiled and began to chuckle a little too. "Yes, you _are_ a barrister," she said, a teasing edge to her voice. Then she smiled sweetly, bringing her own hand to his face. "And yes, you're right."

He wanted to tell her that he would have been perfectly willing to carry on, to even let things escalate, because he knew he had wanted her for a while, but her own feelings were an unknown quantity to him and therefore his pursuit of her—his courtship, to use a more antiquated term—required a slower, more methodical pace. It seemed that her opinion of him had reversed course so very quickly indeed, and he had to ensure they were not moving at a rate for which she was not ready.

There was also the matter of a son whose needs had to be considered before his own.

After some moments in quiet contemplation of one another, Mark spoke first. "I should go," he said.

She nodded. "Yes, you're right," she said again, then turned away to the laptop, which had gone into screensaver mode. "Do you want me to play it again?" she asked.

"You don't need to," he said. "It's all up here." He tapped his temple, which made her smile. "Will you send me a copy all the same?"

"Really? Why?"

"Archival purposes."

She burst out with a little laugh. "Okay."

"Do you need my address?"

"Sure," she said, opening an email message, then typing it in as he read it off. She then pressed send.

"Thank you." He regarded her again. "Are you free tomorrow?"

"I might be," she said, then asked, her expression making it perfectly obvious she already knew the answer, "Why?"

"Would you care to have lunch with me?"

She smiled. "I think I would, yes."

He did not know exactly when the tide of her opinion had turned, but he was pleased it had, and he smiled too. "Excellent," he said. "Shall I pick you up at noon?"

"Sounds great."

He rose from where he sat; she stood too. "I've had a great evening."

"Me too," she said. "Let me walk you to the door?"

He chuckled. "Okay."

At the door of the flat he turned to her once more, their eyes level as she stood on the bottommost step. "Goodnight," he said. "See you at noon."

"Goodnight."

He leaned forward for a parting kiss and too quickly found himself with her in his arms, kissing her as he had before, holding her close to him, his hands running down the length of her back to settle at her waist. Like before, he broke away again. His voice was a little shaky as he spoke. "Until tomorrow."

She nodded.

He turned to open the door, and with one last look and smile, he left the flat. As he reached the street, he found himself wishing that the night air was just a tiny bit cooler.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Barrister's Apprentice**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 34,894 (six chapters and an epilogue); this chapter: 4,377  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p>Chapter 6.<p>

The venue for lunch was her choice, and she chose the pub directly downstairs from her flat. The food turned out to be excellent, the atmosphere charming, and as the meal wound down he found himself asking if she'd go with him to the pictures.

With a bashful smile, she agreed.

In the end, the film they chose hardly seemed to matter, because he spent very little time actually watching it. The cinema was sparsely populated and she chose a seat near the back; within a few minutes he had the armrest between them flipped up, put his arm around her shoulder, burrowed his nose into her hair, kissed her cheek then, as she turned to look up at him, her lips. With that they were off, snogging like teenagers in the back of the house; she surprised him by taking his hand, putting it directly over her breast and pressing it into her. She sighed as he did; he was both titillated by her boldness and terrified of their discovery.

"I'm probably a mess," she whispered, sitting up straight in her seat as the credits began to roll, smoothing down her hair. He frankly thought she looked gorgeous all mussed; unfortunately it led to thoughts of what she might look like in a post-coital state…

"Shall we have dinner?" he asked abruptly. "We seem to be… on a roll."

She laughed. "Yes, let's."

He raised his hand then cupped her face in it. "You aren't a mess." After a pause, he added, "At least not a mess I mind seeing."

"You're too sweet," she said, smirking a bit then squinting as the house lights came on. "Where for dinner? I think it's your turn to choose."

What he wanted most of all was to have a meal either at his house or her own; he just wanted to spend more time with her privately, not that he intended on going any further than kissing. He delayed answering as they stood then exited the theatre.

"If you can't think of anywhere," she offered tentatively, "we can always pick up takeaway and eat at the flat. Or your place, whatever."

"Your flat is fine," he said.

As they drove towards her flat, they talked about which type of takeaway they should have, and they decided on Thai. Bridget had the place programmed into her mobile, so she phoned in an order as he approached the neighbourhood. "We can pop in, pick it up, take it upstairs, then eat and maybe watch a DVD."

"Perfect."

They did exactly as she had outlined; the food was exquisite, the film she chose of moderate interest, but the moment they had finished eating and she leaned back, he slipped his arm around her shoulder, that they quickly found themselves in much the same situation as they had in the cinema.

He stopped, though, to catch his breath; they had nothing here to prevent things from moving to yet another level of intimacy. The feel of her nails in his hair made him sigh. "Bridget," he said. "I thought you didn't like me."

She stopped, drawing back to meet his gaze. "What?" she asked.

"I was certain that as recently as Magda's party you didn't like me at all."

She still looked perplexed.

"That was only five days ago."

She sat up stiffly, pushed herself back on the sofa. "If that's how you feel," she said coolly.

It was his turn to be perplexed. "How I feel? What do you mean?"

She didn't speak right away, because it was clear even to him that she was restraining her emotions, even if her lower lip was trembling despite her control. She took a steadying breath. "That you think it only takes a few nice dinners to get me to peel my clothes off."

"Wait, what? _No_," he said. "That isn't what I meant at all. I was only concerned that _I_ was moving too fast. I mean… I'm in this for more than a snog."

"And you think that's all I want?" she shot back, her skin flushing pink.

He shook his head. "No, Bridget," he said patiently. "I only mean that from my point of view, you've done a complete about-face in less than a week, and I just want to make sure where you stand."

She was very clearly speechless, until she managed a quiet, "Oh." Her posture relaxed a bit, and she glanced downwards. "Sorry for jumping to conclusions."

"You've nothing to apologise for," he said.

Still she avoided his eyes, even as she smiled tenderly. "I did like you," she said. "I mean, I felt a little spark of something all the way back at the book launch, but I also stubbornly refused to accept it. The weekend of the bunny girl thing—how humiliated I felt in every possible way, but there you were looking the most human I'd ever seen you, and I swore I saw you smiling, maybe even at me, but probably at my expense."

"No," he said. "Not at your expense."

She waited a moment before continuing; perhaps contemplating what he'd said. "I was so angry about what you'd intimated about Daniel, then you turned out to be right… I churlishly despised you for it even as I appreciated your attempt at honesty. Threw everything off for me. Then came that lunch with Sam, how shocked I was that he'd been working with you, of all people… I only had to think back to how happy Sam was when he was doing student work, now knowing it was you he worked with, and realised I must have misjudged you but still I stubbornly clung to my resolve. Seeing you with Sam, though… and seeing how genuinely—" She stopped short, blushing a bit as she lifted her gaze again. "Well, how _nice_ you really are. And I know that's not the greatest word to use, because it's usually a code word for bland or boring or worse, but Mark… nothing could be better than nice after the fuckwits I've dealt with."

He remembered Sam's use of the word, and he allowed a small smile. "Then I will take 'nice' in the spirit in which it's offered."

She smiled a little, too. "I'm glad," she said. "What you saw as a sudden change was really just me letting go of my stubbornness."

In a way it had shocked him to listen to her admission, not the words she'd said, but what they meant: she had been fighting the same discordant emotions he had felt. He chuckled under his breath, thinking of his own 'love/hate' contemplations, and realised that he too had only been stubborn, that his perception of her was what had changed, not anything fundamental about herself. For that he was very grateful.

He held out his hand to invite her to sit closer to him again, and she accepted that invitation. She slid one arm about his neck, placed her other hand on his chest, and leaned forward to kiss him. In a moment's time he had his arms around her, pulling her close to him; his fingers played along her spine. She gasped as his fingertips brushed against the bare strip of skin exposed on the small of her back. His hand then went to her backside then thigh; this encouraged her to turn then straddle his lap, surprising him. His hands went up and down her back, one hand covering her breast, causing her to moan low in her throat. He wanted her so very badly but knew it was far too soon to go to bed together, though with the way she was kissing him he did not know if he would have the strength to resist—

"What the—_Mum_?"

Like a shot she flew off of Mark's lap to the empty seat beside him; it seemed as if he were under a spotlight, and hoped his arousal wasn't as obvious as it felt.

"Sam! What are you doing home?" she asked shakily.

Sam stared at his mother, then at Mark. Her son's expression was totally unreadable.

Bridget went on in a sort of auto-witter: "Not that I'm not happy you're home—I wasn't expecting you—Where's your father?"

"He had a work emergency," said Sam, who also looked slightly pale and quite stern. He shook his head a little in disapproval. "I can't leave you alone for a second, can I, Mum?"

Mark's mortification was whole and complete; he dared not look at Bridget. He folded his hands onto his lap in what he hoped was a subtle way and stared at them.

"And you, sir," Sam went on in that solemn voice, "to think how much I respected you. Trusted you."

Mark had not felt so low in recent memory—he could think only of all he had destroyed in a single moment of time. He became aware at that moment, though, of what sounded to him like a low hum of amusement. Mark ventured a glance up, and saw, much to his surprise, that Sam was smiling; laughing, even.

"Sam," said Bridget darkly; he found she too was looking at him. In the next moment she laughed. "You little bugger." Mark was a bit confused, but took the reaction to be a positive one. "It's all right," confirmed Bridget. "He's just being an arse."

Mark smiled hesitantly.

"I'm actually glad to see you getting along," said Sam. With a grin and a wink, he said, "Maybe I ought to go… get a bite downstairs in the Globe, leave you to your own devices…."

"No need," said Bridget, flushing red again; Mark agreed as his passion had, for the moment, been adequately extinguished. "If you're hungry, I think there's some extra Thai food."

"Okay," he said, then headed to the kitchen; Bridget reached over and took Mark's hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "So," called Sam as he served himself, "you were watching a film?"

"Yes," said Mark, speaking for the first time since Sam had arrived; his voice was surprisingly even given the circumstances. "Have you seen it before?"

"Oh yes," said Sam. "It's my DVD." He came back into the sitting room. "So, with three of us here we could play a nice game of Cluedo."

Bridget groaned.

"Why are you groaning?" Mark asked.

"Every time—"

"Not _every_ time," interrupted Sam.

"_Almost_ every time his father's here we have to play," Bridget corrected. "We played a lot when he was younger, but in Sam's opinion it's just not as much fun with only two people."

"It's not my opinion," Sam said. "It's fact."

"Question," asked Mark. "What's Cluedo?"

Both Bridget and her son stared at Mark agape. "You cannot be serious."

"If it's a game, it's not one I know."

"Probably it's best," said Bridget with an impish smile, "if we show rather than tell."

What followed next was a bit of an education that was evidently a long time in coming; at first, what seemed to Mark to be a quite juvenile game quickly revealed itself to require a bit of mental acuity and deductive reasoning.

"I would have thought this was right up your street," Bridget said. "Murder investigation, I mean."

"I'm a barrister, not working Scotland Yard," quipped Mark. "I believe it's your turn, DI Jones."

In the end, it was Bridget who made the successful accusation with her guess of Miss Scarlett in the Conservatory with the candlestick; what surprised Mark was not that she'd solved it, but the detailed back story she delivered for the crime when she did: "Well, he was holding this secret over her, you see; when they were young they would do weird occultish rituals together under the moonlight. He threatened to tell her new fiancé, Reverend Green, about her unsavoury past. So she arranged to meet him here in the conservatory to perform one last moon dance, under the condition that he tell no one. So when he turned up… she took the candle out of the candlestick and whacked him over the back of the head with the heavy silver thing."

Mark felt a bit speechless after all of that, and turned to see Sam's reaction. He had none that was visible, just a smirk at Mark's own.

"Does she always do that?" asked Mark.

"When she wins, yes."

"And how often does she win?"

"Almost always," said Sam with a certain sense of pride.

"Because you're really good at guessing," teased Mark, "or because you're secretly a sociopathic criminal mastermind?"

She lifted her chin haughtily. "I'll never tell."

He chuckled, then surprised himself first when the laughter turned into a yawn, then when a check of his watch revealed it to be a lot later than he expected. How pleasantly the night had passed indeed in her company—in _their_ company—and how much he looked forward to spending more. "I should probably head home," he said.

"All right," she said, and seemed sad to say it. "I'll walk you down."

Sam chuckled despite himself. "I can go in my room for a few if you want a little privacy."

"Not necessary," said Bridget; her tone indicated her embarrassment.

She walked out into the hallway with him, closing the door most of the way then turning back to him. "Sorry about that."

"Don't apologise," said Mark. "If anything I feel as if _I_ should apologise. I mean—I should have assumed Sam could turn up at any moment."

She smirked. "The person who really needs to apologise is Sam's father, for sending him home a day too early," she joked. "It's really all right." She pulled in her lips in a thoughtful manner. "I mean, not that he catches me snogging madly on the couch frequently."

He smiled. "Frequently?"

"Ever. At all."

He reached and took her hand. "Do you think you'll be free tomorrow?"

"I think that can be arranged," she said with a smile.

"Maybe you and Sam can come over for dinner at my house. I'd love to cook for you."

She gave him a playful look. "You can cook, can you?"

"Like to think I'm passably okay at cooking," he said, "though I really don't do it as often as I should. It's a lot of work for just one person."

"Well, then, I think if you're willing to go through all the trouble… that'd be nice." She then lifted herself up on her toes, combed her fingers into his hair at the nape, and kissed him. He liked the idea that she felt free to kiss him when she chose to. "What time?"

"Whenever you like. If you come early, you can help in the kitchen," he said.

"I'll be sure to arrive as late as possible then," she said with a wink.

He smiled warmly to her. "Until then."

When he got home, he found that she had sent him a text message, something for which he did not typically think to check. "No Sam," it read. "Has plans w/friends. Just you&me."

He smiled to himself, thought for a moment, then responded, "Hope you will reconsider being as late as possible."

After a pause, another incoming message: "Your address again?"

…

Bridget turned up at five in the evening with a bottle of white wine and a bright smile. He greeted her with a kiss and invited her in. She expressed approval at the house even as she seemed overwhelmed by it. "Three levels?" she asked. "Wow."

"It _is_ tall and narrow," he said.

"It must get lonely, being in a big house like this all by yourself," she said, then seemed embarrassed to have said it.

"No, you're right," he said, touched at her observation. "That's how I feel much of the time."

She smiled sympathetically, touching his forearm. "Not tonight," she said softly.

They went downstairs, greeted by the scent of roasting meat; at the sight of the kitchen and lounging area overlooking the back garden, she made even more sounds of appreciation. She set the bottle down on the countertop. "That smells fantastic! So, what are we having?"

He said with all due seriousness, but with a twinkle in his eye, "I was fancying a bit of turkey curry."

At this she laughed aloud. "All right. Where do we start? And do I have to be my mum, or can I be Una?"

After uncorking the wine for a little pre-supper imbibing, they got to work on chopping the onion, garlic and ginger, then as Mark got them (and the majority of the spices) to sautéing, Bridget began cutting the potatoes and the butternut squash, which Mark had already begun cutting into.

"All of these years of cutting up potatoes for my mum finally paying off—_fuck_," she muttered, then held her finger up to her mouth. This alarmed Mark, and it must have shown on his features. "Nicked my finger, that's all," she said, then examined the injury. "That's what I get for such hubris."

"Here, let's see," he said, walking and taking hold of her hand. It was a tiny cut and it had already stopped bleeding. "I'll get you a plaster," he said before lifting her finger and giving it a little kiss. "To make it better."

She met his gaze and smiled sweetly.

"Watch the onions, I'll be right back."

He returned with a plaster, put it over the cut then advised she should take over stirring the spices while he finished the chopping. "I'll be faster without a wound."

She laughed.

In short order they were turning down the temperature to simmer said potatoes and squash for about a quarter of an hour, just in time for the turkey breast to come out of the oven. "Oh, it's perfect," cooed Bridget, "and cor, it's making me ravenous."

"We'll give it a moment to cool down a little before chopping it up," he said, "but we're very nearly done."

"I think I'll likely never quite enjoy my mum's again."

He took her hand again, drew her close, brought her hand up again. "How's your finger?"

"It's fine, if a bit throbby," she said. "Really, there's no need to worry."

He kissed it again for good measure, then held on to her hand in a lingering fashion. "This is nice," he said.

"Have to admit, it is," she said.

The timer sounded then, which prompted him into action regarding cutting up the turkey. "Test a potato cube or two, make sure they're tender."

There was a moment of silence, then he heard, "Yep."

"Okay. The cream, yoghurt and lemon juice should be right there, if you want to stir that in," he directed.

"Any particular order?"

"Dairy first," he said.

Following a simmer to get a good melding of flavours, dinner was completed; Mark served up two big bowls with a little coriander leaf sprinkled in. They moved to the table along with the wine.

"Now I know I'll never feel the same about my mother's," she said after enjoying a large spoonful of food. "This is really excellent."

"It is," he said, thinking how much better it was having made it together.

They ate mostly without saying anything further; they did, however, exchange meaningful looks and smiles over the tops of their wineglasses. At the end of the meal, he reached out his hand towards hers and took it in his own, cradling gently.

"It's sort of funny," she said, "how much one can say without words."

He drew his fingers over her palm in a fond caress. "It is." After a moment, he asked, "Care for dessert yet?"

"What do you have?"

"Mango sorbet," he said. "Thought it would be a nice complement to the curry."

"Oh, yum," she said.

He let go of her hand then rose to serve up dessert, a couple of small bowls of the frozen dessert along with a chilled, sweetened, spiced Thai tea lightened with coconut milk. When she took a sip she pulled a little face, then swallowed and laughed. "Sorry, it's good, just not what I was expecting," she said, then dug into her sorbet. It was evident that she enjoyed that, too. "You really pushed the boat out, here."

"Not really," he said. "All it took was a little forethought."

His words seemed to spark a change in her expression to something much softer and thoughtful, as she had another bite of dessert, then another, until it was gone. He was not sure what to say, wondered if he had somehow misspoken, so he too ate his dessert in relative quiet, sipped his tea until it was gone.

He looked up to her again to find that she was already regarding him with such intensity that her eyes almost seemed indigo. "Is something the matter?" he asked.

"Not at all," she said. "Quite the opposite, actually." The way she continued gazing at him, nearly unblinkingly, had a sudden and decided effect on him; his felt his heart pounding loudly in his ears, heat racing over his skin, desire building as each second passed.

He was not sure if he moved first or if she had, but in an instant they were on their feet and in one another's arms, pausing that anticipatory moment, staring into each other's eyes, before plunging into a deep, soulful kiss. He could think only of the promise of the evening before him; he felt adequately sure of her feelings for him, her desire for him, and there was no possibility of interruption by a teenaged boy should they choose to follow that path.

She broke away breathlessly, then brushed her lips against his cheek in a feather-light kiss. "I was wondering," she said quietly, "if I might see the rest of the house."

He took her hand in his. "It'd be my pleasure."

They returned to the first floor, where he showed her from room to room in a most perfunctory manner, then walked with his hand on her waist up the stairs to the second floor. His bedroom door was slightly ajar; she guessed it was his room instantly, and walked to place her hand on the doorknob.

"May I?" she asked.

"Absolutely."

She crossed the threshold, and allowed a quiet "…the most enormous bed I've ever seen…" to escape her lips as she looked around the room. At this Mark chuckled; she blushed then turned back around to him, that same smoky look in her eyes. "Lovely."

"Yes," he said, still smiling; he approached her and took her hand again. "You are." He brought a hand up to cradle her cheek, then he bent to bring his lips to hers.

One kiss melded into another, and before he thought rationally of it, he had her around the waist, lifted her up off of the floor and set her down on the bed. He took great pleasure in divesting her of her blouse (even if he did have to navigate one damnably frustrating button at a time), and in helping her to shimmy out of her skirt, before removing his own clothes at a record pace. As he did she pushed aside the duvet and the sheets; his eyes lingered upon her body, beautiful and curvy, and perfect to him.

He was then there beside her, his body against hers, free to touch her and elicit those soft sounds of pleasure from her. In her turn she grazed her fingers and mouth on his skin, driving him to utter madness. He was thankful that he'd had foresight in more than just dinner preparation, because he had barely to pause before carrying on making love to her with eagerness and, he hoped, tenderness.

The anticipation he felt in being with her meant a quick, powerful and thoroughly satisfying climax; the cries and moans she made as she came certainly suggested she was satisfied, too. Holding her tightly in his arms, he caught his breath as she caught her own, showering her with little kisses and tender caresses. She traced a line along his cheek and made a quiet sound of amusement.

"I was beginning to despair," she said in a papery voice.

"Oh?"

"That you really thought I really wanted to see the house."

This made him chuckle and draw her closer, kissing her deeply again, running his hand over the small of her back, cupping her backside; it was not hard to keep from wanting to have her again, and she did not in any way object.

It was as he dozed off after their second intimate foray that he heard his mobile ringing from his trouser pocket. He was more than willing to let it go to voice mail. When it began ringing a second time, however, Bridget poked him in the side. "Go on already," she said sleepily.

He reached over the edge of the bed for his trousers, palmed the phone, and brought it to his ear. "Mark Darcy speaking."

There was a pause before a young male voice began to speak. "Mr Darcy, sir—I was just wondering if you would be bringing my mum home soon."

Mark's eyes glanced to the clock; it was after eleven in the evening. Then his eyes shot to her; in return she looked to him with intense curiosity. He mouthed her son's name. Her eyes went wide.

"Um, yes, sure," he said, stumbling on his tongue a bit.

"It's just that… I was gonna watch a film with Rog and I didn't want it keeping her up."

Authoritatively, Mark said, "Go ahead, watch your film in peace. She's not quite ready to come home yet."

Mark heard Sam chuckling. "If she stays over there," Sam said, "that's okay with me."

"I'll tell her she has your permission."

Sam chuckled again. "Good night, Mr Darcy."

"Sam," he said. "Feel free to call me 'Mark'."

"Okay, Mark," Sam said. "Though that seems weird."

"A little." He paused. "Good night, Sam."

He disconnected then turned to Bridget, who looked dubious. "I have his permission for what?" she asked.

"To stay the night."

"Oh, God," she said. "No wonder you look like the cat who got the canary."

"And now I have leave," he said playfully, thinking of Jeremy's colourful variation on the idiom, "to do so again."


	7. Epilogue

**The Barrister's Apprentice**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 34,894 (six chapters and an epilogue); the epilogue: 3,125  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p>Epilogue.<p>

No one was surprised at the pairing, and in fact, the elders of Grafton Underwood, particularly Mark's own mother, were bordering on insufferable smugness. He didn't care though; he was happy, even if it was not easy at first for Mark to feel as if he had been truly accepted by Sam as his mother's new boyfriend. He did not want Sam to think that he was trying to usurp his father's position at all. Bridget insisted Sam knew this. Sam insisted he knew it. Mark decided to err on the side of caution all the same.

Two months after he had begin seeing Bridget properly, as he watched the football game with Sam—discussing the plays, arguing over the best players, cheering at the goals scored, booing at the bad calls, imbibing on bitter together and snacking on biscuits—he realised that maybe, just maybe, he had been worrying for no reason.

"I see how it is."

Mark turned to look up to see Bridget perched on the arm of the sofa. "How what is?"

"You're just going out with me so you have someone to pal around with watching football." She was smirking though; he knew she was just kidding. He reached out, took her hand, then kissed the palm.

"Yes. _That's_ why I'm going out with you."

She laughed.

…

Soon came more revelations.

…

Peter came to town, asked Mark for a pint at the pub, and the two of them had a great evening chatting together.

"I encouraged her," Peter said after a couple of pints.

"Pardon?"

"You," he elaborated. "I told her you obviously fancied her, you seemed a nice chap, and Sam had nothing but praise to heap upon you."

Mark thought back to when Sam mentioned Bridget speaking at length with Peter, and he couldn't help grinning; he never imagined that the discussion was so weighted in his favour. "Well, it looks like I should have been the one to buy the drinks. Thank you for that."

Peter waved it off. "It seemed inevitable with the way you interacted with each other at Magda's—seemed so obvious to me, anyway—so I figured you both might as well be happy sooner rather than later."

Mark grinned then took a sip of his beer, feeling suddenly pensive… and grateful that Bridget got along with her ex far better than he ever would with his own.

…

Then came the packet in the mail, carried in by Sam, who looked wan and shocked.

"What is it?" asked Bridget. "Who's it from?"

He stared at Mark, then his mother. "It's from Cambridge," he said with reverence.

Bridget's hands flew to her mouth. "Oh my God," she gasped. "Open it!"

Sam looked to Mark again. "Should I?"

Mark smiled, then nodded. He'd never seen a rejection letter come with so much paperwork, but he did not say a word about his suspicions, only said in a neutral tone, "Go ahead."

Sam slipped his finger under then lifted the flap, then pulled a letter from the top to read. Mark watched Sam's eyes scan the page, watched his expression change. Quickly he looked up, his gaze moving between the two. "I don't believe it."

"Stop torturing me!" cried Bridget. "Did you or—"

She stopped short when the smile on Sam's face broadened and thus revealed what Mark had suspected. "You're in," Mark said.

"I'm in," he confirmed. Bridget squealed in delight. "Thanks to you."

"No, don't thank me. Your school career speaks for itself."

"I'm sure your letter helped a—"

Bridget ran to her son and hugged him more tightly than she ever had, if Mark could judge by his expression of mock asphyxiation. Mark chuckled at the face he was pulling. "I am _so_ proud of you," she said, tears quickly filling her eyes and flowing copiously over and onto her cheeks. She looked to Mark, then held out her arm to invite him over. He declined; he did not want to intrude on their moment. However, she insisted: "Come here. You are a big part of making this come together. I don't think he ever would have applied to Cambridge but for you."

Reluctantly he went over and allowed her to pull him into her embrace; it surprised Mark to feel Sam hug him, too. Though the moment was completely unplanned, the moment left him feeling, possibly for the first time in his life, as if he were part of a family of his own. He liked the feeling very much indeed.

…

Before he knew it November was upon them; first came his big trial for his client Aghani (for which he won a favourable verdict), but more importantly to him on a personal level, it was Bridget's birthday. He knew it seemed a bit extravagant, but he really wanted to whisk her away, so he booked a holiday, told her to pack for more southerly climes and to bring her passport. He confided to Sam what the destination was, and Sam confided to him that he thought she hadn't been outside of the UK in more than a decade.

He thought she might faint upon arrival to the airport, when she saw their destination: Florence. "You're joking, right? We're really just going to Scotland or something, aren't we?"

He showed her the ticket. She did not quite recover herself until they were on the plane enjoying some complimentary sparkling wine, and upon realising they were to be flying in first class, she glazed over a bit once more.

Glazed over a bit, but smiling like a loon, though.

They had an amazing time, as tourists browsing the Uffizi, as friends with strengthening bonds, and as lovers enjoying the perks of their very lush suite.

…

Next came Peter's wedding, late in November; it was a very sedate affair, a civil ceremony with a wedding party comprised of Bridget and another of the bride's friends, and Sam and a friend of Peter's standing up for the groom. Mark watched her as the ceremony progressed, and was impressed and pleased that she could be so genuinely happy for Peter and Phoebe, even breaking composure as the ceremony completed and bouncing on her toes in her glee.

Seeing her up there, beaming before the registrar… for the first time in a very long time, Mark entertained thoughts of marriage. _Without recoiling, anyway_, he thought, then chuckled to himself.

The wedding and the reception afterwards afforded Mark the chance to get to know Peter's new bride a little bit better. She was almost as tall as Peter, lithe, fair-haired, brown-eyed and radiant; as Mark observed her greeting her guests, she seemed very pleasant and open, but he couldn't quite grasp how Peter could have fallen in love with her after knowing and loving Bridget. He did, however, acknowledge that it was very probable he was a bit biased.

"It's very nice to meet you properly at last," she said to him as he stood observing Bridget dancing with Sam. "I've heard so many nice things about you from Peter."

"I was just thinking the same," Mark said. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," Phoebe said. Her gaze followed his, to where the two of them were laughing as Sam fumbled through the slow dance. She said after a moment, "They're very definitely related, aren't they?"

Mark chuckled. "That they are." After a pause, he asked, hoping to speak to her more, "Care to dance?"

She smiled; perhaps she felt the same way. "Yes, that'd be nice." After a moment of getting into the rhythm of the dance, she continued, "I hope I can be a good step-mum to Sam. I mean, I'll never take his mum's place and I don't want to try, but…" She trailed off a bit wistfully.

"I don't think you'll need to worry about that," said Mark, turning his gaze towards her. She smiled.

"Thanks for that," she said. "If anyone else can understand, you can." She paused a moment. "When we first started going out, Peter and me," she began, "I grew terribly jealous of her. Of Bridget."

"You did?"

She nodded, but was smiling too. "Peter spoke to her so often, talked about her a lot, and of course they had Sam in common. I felt I was intruding, and that I could never compare."

Obviously she'd gotten over it. "So what happened to change that?"

"Bridget happened. We came down to get Sam for the summer break—oh, not this year of course—and when father and son went out for a store run, she sat me down and had a very frank talk about things. Have to say, it surprised me, but it was just what needed to happen." She smirked. "Did you ever feel the same? Like you were competing with Peter?"

"I can't lie. I did a little, though it was not because of anything Bridget did or said—I understood they were friendly not just for Sam's sake, and it was natural they remained in contact. Still…."

"Did Peter give you a talking to?

He chuckled. "No, he didn't, at least not in that way—he'd actually overtly prodded me in her direction, reassured me that it was okay to ask her out. I finally realised that I believed Peter when he'd said Sam would be okay with it too, and that Sam and Bridget really did believed me when I said that I wasn't trying to take his dad's place."

"Perhaps I was just more insecure not having that advanced approval," she said. "You've been together a while, right? You and Bridget?"

"Since the end of August."

"August… of this year?"

Mark nodded.

"Oh," she said. "For some reason I thought it was a lot longer."

He smiled a little to himself.

"Well, Bridget seems quite happy," said Phoebe, "so whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

"I intend to."

"May I cut in?" Mark turned to see Sam standing there with a smile, ready to take up with his new stepmother. Mark stepped back just as Sam added, "Promise not to step on your toes."

Phoebe smiled, and before going off with Sam, she said to Mark, "It was really nice talking to you."

"Nice talking to you, as well."

He scanned the room looking for Bridget; it wasn't a large room nor a large gathering, but he didn't see her. He furrowed his brow, wondering where she could have gone. He then felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey." It was Bridget.

"Oh, hello," he said, taking her in his arms and pecking her cheek. "Where've you been?"

"Your powers of observation are failing," she teased. "I was right here all along."

He met her gaze and smiled. "That you were," he murmured.

"So," she said, offering a bit of a pout. "Where's _my_ dance?"

It occurred to him that he'd made a major faux pas: he had danced with another woman (albeit the bride) before dancing with his own girlfriend. He held his hand out to take hers, offering an apology: "Sorry, darling." As her expression changed, he realised she may have actually been a little jealous; it shouldn't have, but it pleased him a bit. Close to her ear, he said, "To make up for it, for the rest of the night I am at your disposal."

He heard her laugh low in her throat. "Just tonight?" she retorted gently.

_Every night_, he thought as he kissed the hair at her temple.

…

One year after their reintroduction as adults, on New Year's Day, the Turkey Curry Buffet took place again, and this year, they attended together with Sam; his father and stepmother were having a delayed honeymoon. The atmosphere was different than the previous year, charged; even Bridget commented on how oddly the Grafton Underwood hens were acting.

"They're all a-twitter, every last one of them," she said. "Wonder what's going on? What do they know that I don't?"

Mark pursed his lips. He knew, too, but wasn't about to say anything; at least, not yet. "Let's have some curry, shall we, and reminisce about last year."

She smirked, evidently not aware that he had completely sidestepped her questions. Sam asked, "So what happened last year?"

"We met," said Mark, "and sparks flew, but not in the way you'd expect."

"If I hadn't been so… _hungover_," she said.

"If I hadn't been so…" he began, but faltered for the right word to describe his mood that day.

However, Bridget supplied, "Grumpy?"

He chuckled. "Yes. And if we both hadn't been dressed so awfully…"

"Oh, come now, that tapestry dress is one of a kind."

Sam laughed. "Is that the one Granny Pam always tries to get you to wear to weddings and such?"

"One and the same," she said.

"'One of a kind', indeed," said Sam.

They went to the buffet table and Mark served them all heaping plates of curry, then poured Sam an apple cider and himself and Bridget each a glass of wine. "Here's to having the courage to admit I was wrong," he said, raising his glass for a toast.

She laughed and clinked his glass with her own. "Hear, hear."

Mark decided that after they ate lunch but before the famed Raspberry Surprise dessert was brought out would be the best time for a nice, peaceful, romantic walk. Bridget seemed a little taken aback by the suggestion, though she agreed it sounded lovely, "If only to get away from all of the chatter for a bit."

Even though the entire town was blanketed in snow, the sky was clear and blue and the sun was shining. He drew in a long, deep breath, then exhaled, taking her gloved hand in his as they walked along the edge of the driveway.

They hadn't gotten far, not even to the road, when Mark spoke. "Bridget," he said. "I want to ask you something."

"How long to stay?" she surmised. "We can leave after dessert."

He stopped walking, and by dint of her hand being in his, she stopped too. "No," he said, "not that."

She turned to face him, noticing for the first time that he was being very serious. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

He offered a small smile, releasing her hand, then putting his hands into his coat pockets. "You could say that," he said. "I've realised that I don't want to imagine a future without you in it, so…" From one pocket he pulled out a small box, which he then opened. She gasped.

"That's a ring," she said in a quiet voice.

"Yes, it is," he confirmed. He thought the moment would leave him calm, cool, collected and assured of his answer, but she only looked stunned and he wasn't sure she would speak again, or that she was fully comprehending what the appearance of the ring meant. He dropped down on one knee in the snow. "Bridget," he said, taking her hand in his, "I wanted to ask—will you marry me?"

She blinked rapidly, her mouth hung open slightly, and she then pulled her hand out of his, for a moment scaring him into thinking she might run away screaming; it turned out she'd only taken her hand back in order to remove her glove. Tears rolled down onto her cheek suddenly. "Oh my God, Mark," she said. "Yes."

She lowered her now-bare hand; he took the ring from its velvet nest and slid it into place on her finger before bringing her knuckles to his lips in a tender kiss. He looked up at her again; she was smiling, but she now had her gloved hand over her face.

He realised she was laughing. At his undoubtedly changed expression, she explained, "Look at the house."

He stood upright again and turned towards her parents' house. It was then he understood; there were faces peering out of practically every window, happy faces, fists pumping, and obvious signs of cheering. He felt his skin automatically flush with his embarrassment, but he should have known what they'd do; after all, they'd all known his intention for the day. He turned back to her; she was chuckling and crying at the same time. "So that's what all the hubbub was about," she managed.

"Yes," he said. "They all knew."

She burst into fresh tears and threw her arms around his neck. "I love you," she said.

He wrapped his arms around her, kissed her, then told her that he loved her too. After a few more moments of solitude, of the bliss of holding her in his arms, he drew away to meet her luminous eyes. If ever he needed reminding that giving in against stubbornness was sometimes the best course of action, he need only remember the woman in his arms that had just agreed to be his wife.

"I suppose we ought to go and face the onslaught," she said, her cheeks high in colour, a smile broad on her face, her voice still tremulous with emotion.

"I suppose so," he said, raising a thumb to brush the tears away from her cheek. "If for nothing else, my knee is soaking wet."

At this she burst out with a little laugh.

"Mind you," he continued, "it was worth it."

She then she threaded her arm through his for their walk back to the house. Upon their entry she was immediately accosted and hugged by Sam.

"Congrats, Mum," he said.

"Oh you," she said, tearing up again, returning the tight hug, kissing his cheek. "I'm surprised you didn't demand Mark ask permission for my hand."

Sam laughed. "What makes you think he didn't ask?"

Mark nodded solemnly. "It was the only proper thing to do."

She laughed lightly and kissed her son again.

As they ran through the gamut of friends and relatives congratulating them for the happy news, Mark recalled with embarrassment how he had assumed some kind of defect on her part in needing to be set up, how he had not seen beyond the awful dress and misspeaks because of his assumptions and arrogance. He realised now that they had seen the match for what it would be, even if he hadn't been able to do so at the time—and for that he was thankful.

"I'd like everyone's attention," said Sam, breaking Mark from his thoughts. "Everyone get your drink for a toast." Sam waited for them all to hold glasses aloft before continuing: "To Mum, I wish you years of happiness and love because if anyone deserves it, it's you; to Mark, I wish I'd been here at the Turkey Curry Buffet last year, is all I'm saying. Also? Thanks for not being a f—Well. I think you know what I mean."

Mark laughed and joined in on the toast that followed, but could only think that he was especially thankful that Sam was thankful, too.

_The end._

Note:

A tip of the hat to the book that inspired the concept of Sam: _Slam_ by Nick Hornby.

You can visit the post on LiveJournal for a link to the BBC's turkey curry recipe :)


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